I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle. He groans, pushes deeper. Yes. That. Exactly that.
"Harder," I gasp.
"You sure?"
"Yes. Yes."
He gives me what I ask for—thrusting harder now, faster, the headboard tapping against the wall. But he's still checking in with his eyes, still watching my face, making sure this is good, making sure I'm with him.
"Touch yourself," he says rough.
I slide my hand between us, find my clit, circle it in time with his thrusts. Pleasure winds tighter, coiling low in my belly, building and building. His rhythm doesn't falter—steady, relentless, hitting that spot inside me over and over until I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
"Scout."
"I'm here. I'm right here."
When I come, it's with his name tearing out of me and his eyes locked on mine, pleasure ripping through me in waves that don't stop, don't let up, just keep crashing until I'm shaking with it.
He follows seconds later—face buried in my neck, my name a rough groan against my skin, his whole body shuddering with release.
We stay like that—tangled together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and satisfied. My heart's still racing. His weight on me is grounding, real. Proof that this happened, that we're here, that we chose this.
Eventually he shifts, careful not to crush me. Pulls out slow, gentle. I wince slightly at the loss. He notices, kisses my forehead. Soft.
"You okay?"
I pull him down, need him close. "That was..."
"Yeah."
"This is what it should be like."
He lifts his head, looks at me. Understanding in his eyes.
"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Not running. Not hiding. Just this."
"Just this."
He rolls to the side, pulls me with him so we're facing each other. His fingers trace patterns on my back—idle, affectionate, grounding. The ceiling fan clicks overhead, barely moving air but trying. Outside, the desert's gone quiet, that deep night silence that only happens here.
"Thank you," I say into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For staying. For talking. For this." I press closer, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. "For proving you meant it when you said you wouldn't run."
His arm tightens around me.
I trace the edge of where prosthetic would connect if he had it on—that place where his body changes. He doesn't flinch. Just lets me touch, lets me learn him.
"We're okay," I say. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"We're okay."
My eyes are getting heavy, sleep pulling at the edges. But I fight it for a moment longer, wanting to hold onto this—the peace, the safety, the simple rightness of being here with him. Of choosing to stay even when it was hard. Of building something real out of all our broken pieces.
I wake up to Holt's warmth surrounding me. Still wrapped around him, my leg thrown over his hip, our bodies pressed together so close there's no space left between us.
