He obliges, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming brutal, primal. The bed creaks, the headboard slamming against the wall as he pounds into me, his name a mantra on my lips.
“Leo, fuck, I’m close,” I gasp, my body coiling tight, my orgasm building like a storm. He smirks, his hand reaching between us, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. “Cum for me, Sage,” he commands, his voice rough and dominant.
I shatter. My orgasm explodes, my body convulsing, my walls milking his cock as I scream his name. He follows, his thrusts stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he roars, his release hot and intense.
For a moment, we are suspended in time, our breaths ragged, our hearts pounding in unison. His weight rests on me, his sweat mingling with mine, and I feel his lips press softly against my shoulder, a tender contrast to the ferocity of moments before.
“Sage,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin.
I turn my head, our eyes meeting, and in that gaze, I see everything—the anger, the need, the fear, and the fragile hope that we might find our way back to each other. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved futures.
His hand lingers on my hip, his touch questioning, as if asking if I was ready to face what lay beyond this moment.
But I can’t answer. Not yet. The weight of our past and the uncertainty of our future presses down on me, and I feel torn between the safety of silence and the risk of vulnerability. Instead, I reach up, my fingers brushing his cheek, my touchgentle, uncertain. He closes his eyes, leaning into my hand, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sheets tangle around us, and the faint sound of our labored breathing fills the silence.
I can feel his body relax against mine, his muscles softening, his grip loosening, and I wonder if this was all we could ever be—two people finding solace in each other’s arms, afraid to ask for more.
“Leo,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. He opens his eyes, his gaze searching mine, and I see the same question in his eyes that I felt in my heart.Could we do this? Could we face the mess we’d made and try to piece it back together? Or would this moment, like so many others, fade into the background of our lives?
He doesn’t speak. Instead, he kisses me—softly, tenderly, as if trying to convey everything he couldn’t put into words. His lips moves against mine, his breath warm, his touch careful, and I feel the walls around my heart begin to crack. I kiss him back, pouring all my confusion, my fear, and my hope into that single gesture.
He nods, understanding passing between us, and we settle back into the bed, our bodies entwined, our breaths syncing. The world outside hums on, oblivious to the storm within, and here, in the aftermath, we linger. The future remains uncertain, the present still burning, but for now, we hold on—to each other, to the moment, to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back.
His hand traces slow circles down my spine. The touch is softer now, grounding. His voice comes out low, almost guilty. “I’m sorry.”
I close my eyes. “For what?”
“For all of it.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “For making this harder than it had to be.”
I want to tell him he didn’t. That we both did. But my throat closes up around the words. So I just nod, my fingers curling against his side, refusing to let go.
For a fleeting second, I let myself believe that maybe this—this moment—is enough to drown out the noise. But it never is.
The room is quiet now, except for the steady sound of our breathing. I’m still curled against him, the sheet tangled around my legs, my body heavy and warm. His hand is resting on my hip, thumb moving in lazy circles, but his mind’s somewhere else. I can feel it in the way his chest rises—tight, uneven.
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” I ask softly.
He exhales through his nose, the sound half a sigh. “Claire’s filing a report. The league wants to talk to me.”
My stomach tightens. “Talk to you or investigate you?”
His silence answers for him.
I push up on my elbow to look at him. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between anger and exhaustion. “Leo…”
“I’ll handle it,” he says, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s my mess to clean up.”
“You meanours.”
He turns his head then, eyes finding mine. “You shouldn’t have to pay for my temper. Or his lies.”
“I’m already paying for them,” I whisper. “We both are.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us feels fragile again, stretched thin by everything that’s still unsaid. Then he reaches for me, brushing his thumb down my arm. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”
Promises. They sound so easy in the dark.
