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The second his arms were around me, it was like coming home.
The agitation I felt when he’d left the apartment disappeared, and as he clambered into bed—a move that was made awkward when I wouldn’t let go of him—he shifted us around so that he was sitting up with his back to the pillows so I could keep burrowing into him.
I had no idea how long I sobbed for. It might have been a few minutes or an hour, but the scent of him, combined with the cold touch of his body from having left the apartment, the strength of his arms around me, it soothed something in me. Something that would always respond to him.
He didn’t say a word.
Not to calm me down, not to annoy me, not to make me laugh.
He was just there.
Like I knew, no matter what, he always would be.
My nails dug into his shoulders, but he didn’t complain, and rawly, I whispered, “I’ll never divorce you.”
“I know you won’t.”
He pressed a kiss to my temple then carefully lowered us both deeper into bed. I had to shuffle around a bit, but he didn’t make me get off him.
If anything, he grabbed the covers, tucked them around us, encouraging me to stay exactly where I was.
“How do you know that?” I breathed, my face still pressing into his throat where I could feel the slightest trace of his pulse against my forehead.
“Because you and me, we’re it for each other, Aoife. You could leave me, but it would be a half-life you’d be resigning us both to.” He squeezed me. “I fucked up. I admit it. It was a horrific thing I did, and I will spend the rest of my life making up for it. Even then, it might never be enough, but I am yours. You are mine.”
I thought about the tattoo on my arm, and I whispered, “The air I breathe—”
“—belongs to you.”
With a shuddery sigh, I nuzzled his throat again, then I closed my eyes.
