His thumb swept under the hem of my shirt, brushing skin, sending heat racing up my spine. I tugged his hoodie over his head, hair mussed, jaw set, fighting for the control he was about to lose. My fingers trailed down the chiseled lines of his chest, over ridges I’d never forgotten.
I kissed down his throat, nipping the spot that made his pulse jump. He hissed, hands clamping my waist, dragging me closer—no mistaking what he wanted. No denial left.
“Mila,” he groaned into my hair, the sound guttural, wrecked.
“We said no lies. No games.” I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “This is real.”
His answer was his mouth on mine again, fierce this time. A clash. A claim. My shirt was gone before I realized he’d tugged it over my head. His palms splayed across my back, hot, certain, pulling me flush against his bare skin.
The taste of him filled me—salt, heat, hunger. My body answered without thought, rocking into him, catching friction that had me gasping against his lips. His hand slid lower, fingerscurling into the waistband of my leggings, hesitating just long enough for me to nod.Yes.
Clothes became obstacles. His jeans hit the floor. My leggings followed. He fumbled for his wallet, tore open a foil packet with shaking hands. The sight—careful, certain—made something in my chest twist. Then his mouth was on mine again, all heat and hunger, as he rolled the condom on.
Skin to skin now, nothing between us but air and a year of wanting.
When he pushed inside me, I bit down on his shoulder to muffle the sound tearing out of me. He stilled, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.
“Okay?” he whispered, voice breaking.
“More than okay,” I breathed, rolling my hips to prove it.
The pace built—slow at first, then faster, harder—burning through the silence and anger we’d carried too long. His hand tangled in my hair, his other gripping my thigh, anchoring me while we moved together, as if we’d never been apart.
Every sound, every breath, every scrape of skin felt like a promise—this wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about us.
The couch creaked under us. My nails raked down his back, his name caught in my throat as heat coiled low and fast. He kissed me through it, swallowing my cries as I came undone against him.
He followed with a shudder, a groan deep in his chest as he buried his face in my neck. For a long moment, we stayed entwined, breathing each other in, refusing the distance that waited beyond the room.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them—storms eased, walls wide open.
“I’ve missed you.” His voice was raw, scraped clean of anything but truth.
I smiled, brushing my thumb along his jaw. “Me too.”
This time wasn’t about fire or fury. It was easy because choosing him wasn’t just a want but trust. And that was the part I hadn’t been sure I could give back until now. It felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be—like the stars had finally lined up. We were safe in our bubble for now, but how long would that last?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LUKE
Mila’s house carried scars if you looked too long—the carpet frayed at the baseboards, paint chipped around the windows, and the blinds leaned crooked. Even a faint water stain had spread across the ceiling. Her dresser drawer stuck just enough that you had to hip-check it to get it closed.
But I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Because she was here. And wherever Mila was—that was where I wanted to be.
She slept curled into me, arm draped across my chest. Her breath was steady against my skin. I hadn’t slept much. A few hours, broken. Every time I closed my eyes, last night replayed like a reel spun in my head.
Her skin still burned against mine. Her mouth. The sounds she made when she let go—I felt them in my chest hours later, pulsing as if they hadn’t faded at all. Every touch left a mark I couldn’t shake. And she’d chosen me—not just for a kiss, not just to let me close, but for all of it. Trusting me enough to go there after everything between us. It told me she was right here with me, even if she wasn’t ready to put it into words.
And I wasn’t about to tell her how much it meant. I couldn’t. The truth was simple—she was it. The one. I loved her. Morewith every damn day, whether I wanted to or not. And maybe saying it—even just to myself—was reckless. In our volatile world, love wasn’t just a choice. It was a weakness someone could weaponize.
I’d never felt this with anyone else, and I knew I never would. Growing up, I’d had to see too much too fast—shady deals, adults who lied with a straight face, loyalty that cracked the second it was tested. It taught me to hold things close, never hand anyone leverage they could use against me. Handing her that kind of power would tilt everything—make me the one reaching, the one at risk. And if she ever walked away again, I didn’t know if I would survive it.
From the first moment I’d seen her, something had clicked. Not just her beauty—though that was enough to knock the air out of me—but her fire. Her stubbornness. The way she carried herself as though she refused to be owned, even when she was cornered. That spirit had lit something in me I hadn’t been able to put out since.
Other guys noticed. They always had—the way heads turned when she walked in. They wanted her. But I’d already had her fire, her trust. No one was taking that from me again.
I shifted slightly, my arm numb from holding her all night. The mattress creaked, soft against the worn frame. She stirred, lashes fluttering, before her eyes blinked open.
