“I’m not letting this world take you from me.” There’s more in that than I mean to show, but I don’t take it back.
Her hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you. Always.”
I believe her.
It doesn’t erase the fear, but it steadies it—gives it something to push against. I rest my forehead against hers and keep moving with her, holding onto that as long as I can.
A low sound leaves her, steady, caught in the rhythm between us. Then she tightens, and I know she’s close. Something in me tightens with her.
I move harder, faster.
“Oh—” Her legs pull me in tighter. “Dane?—”
“I know,” I say, my voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
She breaks against me, the sound pressed into my shoulder, and I feel it through all of me. I stay with her through it, holding steady until it fades, until the tension leaves her body.
I pull out of her, and the orgasm hits hard. It tears through me in long pulses against the sheets, a groan forcing its way out through clenched teeth while each wave rolls up my spine hard enough to leave me shaking.
The linen catches everything, and I’m still trembling by the time the last of it fades, hips finally going still, breath coming in rough, uneven pulls.
For a moment, I just stay there, breathing.
Then I lie down beside her and pull her into me. We stay like that—close and still—while everything settles and our breathing evens out.
“What are you thinking?” Charlotte asks.
I stare up at the ceiling. “That we walk back into all of it tomorrow and the world decides we’re something that needs explaining. Something it needs to fix.”
“And?”
I let out a breath. “And you start to believe it.”
She lifts her head and looks at me. “Dane?—”
“I know.”
“No—actuallyknowit. Don’t just say it.”
“I’m trying.” I glance down at her. “You’re better at that than I am.”
She studies me for a second, then shifts against me. “You’re used to being in control. Out there, you had to be. You made every call. You thought three steps ahead. That’s how we survived.”
“That’sexactlyhow we survived. I can’t switch that off overnight.”
“I understand,” she says, softer. “I do. But that isn’t our life anymore.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how to not be that. I need it… the control. It’s what makes things feel safe.”
Her hand slides up my chest. “You can relax now. You don’t have to hold everything up by yourself anymore.”
Letting go feels impossible.
Looking after her isn’t something I do. It’s who I am.
For years, everything began with the same question:
Is she safe?
