So I give her the last of it—the part I’ve never said out loud.
“You think I give a fuck about having kids?” My voice breaks before it builds—rough, guttural, and wrecked. “You think I’m standing here grieving some maybe-baby future?”
I step forward, chest heaving, fists clenched at my sides. “I'd burn down every version of that life for you.”
She flinches—just barely—but doesn’t look away.
“You don’t want kids? Fine.” I'm close enough now to feel the heat coming off her skin—rage, grief, all of it. “Then we don’t fucking have them. I don’t need a legacy. I don’t need some sweet little nursery with pastel walls and rocking chairs.”
I gesture to the paint-stained floor, the cracked canvas, and her trembling shoulders. “This is the life.Youare the fucking life, Stella.”
I swallow hard, and my voice drops to something lower. Something dangerous. “You are the only fucking thing I need. Do you understand me?”
I take her face in my hands, careful like I’m holding something sacred. “Not a child. Not a family. Not a future we built when we were too young to know what this world takes from you.”
I lean in, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like she’s the last air I’ll ever get. “If all I get is this—your fury, your grief, your fire—then that’s what I want. That’s what I’ll crawl through hell for.”
My lips brush against hers, barely. “I'll carry the weight of never being a father if it means I get to love you this hard.”
Stella
Idon’t speak. Not for a heartbeat.
Not for three.
Something inside mefractures—nota break, not a fall. A shatter that makes space.
“I’ll carry the weight of never being a father if it means I get to love you this hard.”
The words are still hanging in the air, and I’m suddenly aware I’ve been holding my breath for hours. Maybe days. Possibly since the second they died.
And now—now it’s like I can finally breathe. But the air tastes like him. Like sweat and grief and absolution tinged with dark plum.
And it’s not enough.
It fills my lungs, but not my chest. It doesn’t touch the ache under my skin. Not until I touch him.
I move before I even know what I’m doing. One hand knots into his shirt, the other fisting his hair as I crush my mouth to his—not gentle, not searching.Claiming.Teeth, tongue, and salt.
He groans against my lips, hands twitching at my waist. “Stella—” His voice is low, ragged, and thick with restraint. “You don’t have to—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I whisper, my mouth brushing the corner of his jaw like a promise. My teeth graze his throat. “Let me drop to my knees and remind you exactly who you belong to.”
I grip his shirt and shove him back into the wall, watching the way his eyes darken, his chest rise. I lean in, voice dropping into something sinful.
“Let me get on my knees and worship my husband like he’s the only altar that’s ever mattered.”
His breath stutters. One hand fists the back of my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Fuck, Stella—” It’s barely a sound, more like a gasp dragged from his chest. He’s shaking. Not from fear. From the force of holding himself back.
His head tips back against the wall as I drag my mouth down his throat, slow and open. I press into him, feel the tension coiled tight beneath his suit pants, every inch of him wound and waiting.
“Please,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
“You begging now?” I murmur, fingers brushing his belt. “My poor, sweet husband. You want me to stop?”
“No,” he growls, instantly. Desperate.
I tilt my head and smile. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists. Like he’d break every vow but this one—me.
