I couldn't stop. Not now. Not when she was wrapped around me, soft and warm and trusting in a way that gutted me. Not when every breath she took made my chest ache with something I refused to name.
She was under my skin. In my blood. In every thought I tried to bury and every moment I tried to forget.
I was already too far gone. And God help me, I didn't want to come back.
Sleep dragged me under before I could stop it.
I fought it at first—kept my eyes open, focused on the ceiling, on the shadows, on anything that would keep me sharp. But her warmth seeped into me, slow and steady, and my body betrayed me. My breathing evened out. My muscles went slack. The tension I'd carried for years—sharp and constant and necessary—finally loosened its grip.
I fell.
Deep.
Unbroken.
Safe.
No nightmares clawed their way through. No old ghosts waiting in the dark. Just silence. Just her breath against my chest and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my palm.
When I woke, the room was still dim. Early morning light filtered through her curtains, soft and gray. I didn't move. Couldn't. My mind needed a second to catch up—to recognize where I was, why I felt this strange, unfamiliar lightness in my chest.
Then it hit me.
I'd slept. Actually slept. For the first time in years, I hadn't woken every hour, hadn't jolted awake at every sound, hadn't laid there staring at nothing while my thoughts shredded me apart.
I sat up too fast—panic slamming through me before thought could catch up.
The bed was empty. Cold where she'd been pressed against me. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow and sharp. She left. Of course she left. She woke up, saw what we'd done, saw me, and?—
Water running.
The sound cut through the spiral, quiet but unmistakable. The shower. She was in the shower.
I exhaled hard, scrubbing both hands over my face. My pulse hammered against my ribs, adrenaline still flooding my system even as logic kicked back in. She didn't leave. She was here. Safe. Close.
The relief hit like a physical thing—muscles loosening all at once, tension draining so fast I felt dizzy from it.
And then something else surged up in its place.
Heat. Low in my gut, spreading fast. I could hear the water hitting tile, imagined it sliding over her skin, warm and slick. Pictured her standing there—head tipped back, eyes closed, droplets tracing paths I'd mapped with my hands last night.
My jaw clenched. This wasn't normal. Wasn't how I functioned. I didn't do this—didn't wake up wanting, didn't let desire override control, didn't sit in someone else's bed fighting the urge to follow them into the goddamn shower.
But I wanted to. God, I wanted to. Wanted to step under that water with her, press her against cool tile, feel her gasp against my mouth. Wanted to touch her again, taste her again, hear those sounds she made when I?—
I forced myself to breathe. To think. To remember all the reasons this couldn't happen again.
None of them stuck.
The shower kept running.
And I kept sitting there, hard and aching and completely fucking lost.
I stood outside the bathroom door, hand braced against the frame, every rational thought screaming at me to walk away.
Leave. Get dressed. Go home before she came out and saw the hunger still carved across my face. Before I proved I had no restraint left, no control, nothing but this raw desperate need clawing through my chest.
I turned away once. Made it three steps.
