I melt into it. And just like that, the rest of the day fades. George. The bookstore. The cold echo of old wounds.
None of it matters when I’m here—wrapped in Elijah’s arms, in the place we’ve built together.
His warmth, his presence, his love—it's more than enough.
We don’t rush.
After the bookstore, after George, after the tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding in every muscle—I just need to breathe. And Elijah gives me that. He always does.
The lights in the living room are dim, just the soft golden glow of the lamp by the couch. The kettle hums in the kitchen, and I watch him as he moves, barefoot and steady, like he belongs here, because he does.
Because he does.
He glances over his shoulder and catches me watching. His lips curve in that way that always melts something low and deep in me.
“You want tea or just me?” he asks, voice warm.
I pretend to consider it. “Both.”
He chuckles, crosses the room, and hands me the mug first before sinking beside me on the couch. His thigh presses against mine. Solid. Present. My anchor.
For a while, we just sit like that. His arm slung casually around my shoulders, my head on his chest, the tea forgotten on the table. His fingers stroke slow patterns against my skin. Soothing. Reassuring. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being known.
“You didn’t tell me you were scared,” he says softly.
“I didn’t want to give him more space in my head than he already took.”
He hums. “Fair. But next time, just say it. Let me carry some of it.”
I nod against him. “I did. I texted you.”
“You did.” He kisses my hair. “I'm so proud of you. My good girl.”
That makes my heart skip. Not in the flashy, lusty way. In the way that makes me feel folded into something safe and sacred.
I curl closer. “You always make me feel... like I don’t have to hold everything on my own.”
“You don’t,” he murmurs against my temple. “That’s what I’m here for. To hold whatever you can’t.”
My hand slides along his chest, and I lift my head just enough to look at him. His eyes are soft, but I can feel the quiet intensity there too—the part of him that doesn’t just soothe, but commands, protects, leads.
That part has been growing between us. Not in loud declarations, but in quiet rhythms: the clothes he lays out for me, the little notes, the way he holds me accountable without ever making me feel small.
I shift my weight and climb into his lap without a word, straddling him. His hands go to my hips like it’s instinct. Maybe it is now.
“Elijah?”
“Mmm?”
“Can you just…” I trail off, uncertain of the words, but he waits. Like he always does.
“Can you take over tonight?” I ask finally, quietly. “I don’t want to think. I just want to feel.”
He leans in, nose brushing mine. “You sure?”
I nod. “Completely.”
He kisses me then. Deep and deliberate. Not just with hunger—but with intent. With promise.
