"Holt."
"Yeah?"
"Stay tonight. Please."
"Yeah. I'll stay."
He stands, holds out his hand. I take it, let him pull me up.
We move through the loft in comfortable silence—turning off lights, locking the door, these small domestic gestures that feel significant somehow.
When we reach his bedroom, he pauses in the doorway. Looks at me like he's checking one more time that I'm sure.
I am. So sure it doesn't even scare me.
I step into his space, rise up on my toes, kiss him. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
He responds immediately—hands cupping my face, deepening the kiss, making this small sound in the back of his throat that sends heat straight through me. His thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his kiss deepening but never demanding.
"Tell me what you want," he says against my mouth.
"You. Just you."
We undress each other slowly. No urgency, no desperation, just the quiet intimacy of relearning each other. His hands are gentle, questioning, waiting for permission at every step. When he pulls my tank top over my head, he pauses—eyes asking. I nod. Keep going.
My bra comes off. His shirt follows. The prosthetic's already off from earlier—I can see where it connects.
We make it to the bed. He lays me down careful, hovering over me, eyes searching mine. "Green?"
"So green."
His smile is small but real. He kisses me again—my mouth, my jaw, down my neck. Pauses at my collarbone where my pulse is hammering. His tongue traces it and I gasp, arch up. He does it again, slower. Learning what makes me react. What makes me want.
When his hand slides between my legs, I'm already wet. Ready. Wanting this so much my whole body's trembling with it. He works me slowly—one finger, then two, curling inside whilehis thumb finds my clit. My hips buck. He watches my face, reads every reaction.
I reach for him, wrap my hand around his length. He's hard, already leaking at the tip. I stroke him slow and he groans, pushes into my palm.
"Fuck." His voice is wrecked. "Scout."
"I need you." My voice comes out desperate, breathy. "Please."
He doesn't make me wait. Positions himself, the head of his cock pressing against me. His eyes lock on mine—asking one more time without words.
I nod.
He pushes in slow. So slow. Inch by inch, letting me adjust, giving me time to breathe. The stretch is intense, almost too much, my body tensing automatically.
He stops immediately. "Okay?"
"Don't stop." My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in. "Please don't stop."
He doesn't. Keeps moving, slow and steady, watching my face like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. When he's fully seated inside me, we both pause—breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, just feeling this.
"God, Scout." His voice is wrecked. "You feel so good."
"Move. Please move."
He does. Pulls out almost all the way, pushes back in. Again. Again. Finding a rhythm that's unhurried, deliberate. Every thrust hits something deep inside that makes my toes curl, makes my breath catch, makes everything else disappear.
