Page 26 of Suite 7

His hand slows. His fingers withdraw and I whimper at the loss without caring that I whimper. His palm settles flat against my inner thigh — warm, grounding, not going anywhere.

The room is very quiet.

My own breathing is the loudest thing in it.

Then he reaches above me, and the tension on my wrists goes slack.

My arms drop. He catches them, both of them, his thumbs settling against my pulse points. Then he lifts me. I don’t resist. Can’t. He carries me the few steps to the bed and sets me down with the same quiet care he brought to everything else tonight.

“Color?”

“Green.” Barely a word.

He sits me up slowly, one hand supporting my back, and offers water.

“Small sips.”

I drink. Reality filters back in layers with each swallow, the amber light, the warmth of the blankets, the solid fact of him beside me.

He takes my wrists when I finish, turning them gently in his hands, checking both sides. His thumb runs along the faint redness where the silk was. Careful. Deliberate.

“Good. These marks should fade in a few minutes.” His eyes find mine. “How are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed.” A pause. “Good. Confused.”

“That’s normal after the first scene.” He draws me against his chest, his arm settling around me. “Rest.”

We lie in the quiet. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His hand moving slowly through my hair.

My mind, which I have not been able to silence in as long as I can remember, is completely still.

It lasts approximately forty seconds.

Then, distantly, like a radio signal finding its frequency through static.

He never —

I felt how hard he was. Heard the tautness in his voice when he said let go —

And then nothing. He didn’t —

Why didn’t he —

The thought surfaces and dissolves. Surfaces again. I turn it over once, twice, trying to find the shape of it.

He reaches past me. A dark chocolate protein bar appears.

“Eat. You need it.”

I take it automatically. The sweetness pulls me further back into my body. He offers more water. When I finish, he pulls the blanket more securely around us both and presses his face briefly against my hair.

Just breathing.

The question drifts back. Why didn’t he — But my body is too heavy now, my muscles too loose, the warmth of him too thorough and complete, and the thought doesn’t finish before my eyes close.

Just this.

I’m enough.