I carry her to the bed—if you can call it that. It's just a frame bolted to the floor, mattress thin, sheets scratchy. But it doesn’t matter. We fall into it like gravity itself snapped its leash.
Her shirt hits the floor. Then mine. Then everything else.
And suddenly she’s on top of me, straddling my hips, her thighs tight against mine as her palms flatten over my chest.
“You sure?” she asks, voice lower now, hoarse with want.
“I’ve always been sure,” I rasp.
She grins, wicked and wild. “Then shut up.”
And she rides me like she means it.
Fierce. Unapologetic. Her hips grind in tight, slow circles, building heat between us like friction might burn the past away. Her nails drag red lines down my chest and I hiss, not in pain but in worship. Every mark she leaves feels like proof—I’m here. She’s here. And this? This is real.
I cup her breasts, mouth finding one, then the other, lavishing her with tongue and teeth until she moans, back arching.
“Kenron—fuck—don’t stop?—”
I won’t.
My hands trace her curves, map the terrain I already know by heart but want to relearn it. I kiss the underside of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the slope of her belly. Every inch, every scar, every breath.
She moves faster now, rhythm frantic, breaking apart atop me as her body tightens and trembles. Her fingers knot in my hair, her cries raw and real and mine.
And when I feel her clench around me, I let go too—pulled under by the same storm.
We collapse.
Breathless.
Sweat-slicked.
Her head rests on my chest. My arm wraps around her back.
Silence stretches long and sweet.
I press a kiss to her temple. She shifts just enough to meet my eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. You?”
I chuckle softly. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”
She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in weeks.
We don’t move for a long time.
We just exist.
Together.
After a while, my senses calm down. I notice the small things. The sheets are thin. Smell like dust and old detergent. They cling to us in the sweaty aftermath, tangled around Kristi’s leg and my thigh, heat still pulsing between us like we’re orbiting the same burn.
She rests her head on my chest, fingers drawing lazy circles just above the scar I got in the Kothri riots. We don't speak at first—just listen to the city buzz faintly beyond the blackout shutters, like it’s trying to remember what quiet feels like.
I want to stay here. In this moment. In her.
