I do.
And he breaks.
He kisses me like he can’t breathe without it. Moves inside me like he’s been waiting forever for this exact moment.
Every roll of my hips draws a groan from him, low and guttural. His hands grip me tighter, pulling me closer, deeper, until there’s nothing but heat and friction and the desperate, aching sound of my name on his lips.
“Phern—fuck—you feel like home.”
I cry out when I come, body shuddering around him, the world narrowing to his voice and his hands and the way he holds me through it like I’m something precious. He follows seconds later, jaw tight, arms locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
We stay tangled together afterward, breathless, hearts pounding, skin damp and flushed. And even though we don’t say it out loud, something changed in that moment. Something real. Something that might just be worth holding on to.
The room is quiet now.
Dim light filters through the blinds, painting soft lines across the tangle of sheets and bare skin. My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. His fingers trail lightly up and down my spine, the touch more comforting than sexual—moreintimatethan anything we’ve done.
We haven’t said much.
But the silence isn’t empty.
It’s full of everything wedon’tknow how to say yet.
I trace a slow circle over his ribs with my fingertip, the steady thump of his heart under my cheek grounding me more than I want to admit.
Then, softly—so soft I almost miss it—he asks:
“You still going to Vegas?”
My finger stills.
His hand does too.
I don’t answer right away. My throat is dry, my mind already pulling apart the pieces of last night, trying to figure out what itmeant.
I shift slightly, lifting my head to look at him.
He’s watching me. No smile. No smirk. Just raw, quiet worry in his eyes.
Like maybe he already knows the answer and just wants to hear me say it.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I was.”
“Because of him?”
I shake my head. “Because ofme.Because I didn’t think there was anything left here worth staying for.”
He closes his eyes for a second, jaw tight.
And then, even softer—carefully—he says, “And now?”
I swallow hard. “Now it’s harder to leave.”
He exhales, a shaky breath like he’s been holding it the whole time. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I figured,” I murmur, pressing a hand to his chest. “You did just carry me across the damn street like a caveman.”
That earns the faintest smile.
