And I collapse under it.
Not afraid.
Not broken.
Just his.
His weight is on me, heavy and warm and real.
My body is still shaking, as if tiny earthquakes are rumbling beneath my skin, yet he remains motionless. Just stays there. One arm under my head, the other wrapped around my waist like he thinks I’ll disappear if he lets go.
Maybe I will.
I blink up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath. It takes longer than it should. My chest rises and falls like I just ran for my life—and in a way, I did.
Except I ran to him.
My thighs are sticky. My throat is raw. My skin hums where he left teeth and praise and punishment.
And still, I don’t feel clean.
Not in a dirty way.
In the haunted way.
Like something followed me here.
His fingers move finally. Slow strokes down my spine, anchoring me. His lips find the edge of my jaw, just once—bare, silent. No demands. No warnings.
Just contact.
And that’s what undoes me.
Not the roughness.
Not the force.
Not even the filthy words he whispered as I shattered beneath him.
It’s this.
The quiet.
The care.
It hits too deep, too true. And it cracks the shell I built to survive.
I turn into him, pressing my face to his chest. His scent is everywhere. Sweat, breath, leather, musk—Damien.
I inhale until it burns.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
His voice is softer now. No edge. No demand. Just Damien, post-storm.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
