Instead, there's trust.
"Bree." Her name feels sacred on my tongue. "Are you sure?"
She nods, her hands finding the buttons of my shirt. Her fingers tremble slightly, but not with fear. With something that makes the air between us hum with possibility.
"I've seen inside you," she whispers, working the first button free. "The shame, the hunger, all of it. And I'm still here."
The cotton falls open under her touch, and she places her palm flat against my chest. The warmth of her skin burns through me like salvation.
"You saw me too," she continues, voice barely audible. "In that closet. How small I felt. How hopeless. And you didn't flinch."
"Never." The word comes out rough, absolute. "You could show me every scar, every fear, every broken piece, and I would never flinch."
She tilts her head back, studying my face. "Then show me."
I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. She leans into the touch like it's something she's been craving, and the simple gesture undoes me completely.
When I kiss her, it's not with the hunger that's been clawing at me for weeks. It's reverent. Worshipful. Like I'm finally touching something sacred after centuries of emptiness.
She melts against me, her body soft and warm and willing. The Ether around her ankles responds, silver mist curling up to wrap around us both like approval. Like blessing.
I've never made love to someone. Fed from them, yes. Used them for sustenance, for momentary relief from the endless hunger. But this—touching her not because I need to take something, but because I want to give everything I have—this is new.
Her shirt hits the ground first, then mine. She doesn't hide from me, doesn't cover the faint scars that map her history across pale skin. Instead, she watches my face as I trace them with gentle fingers, learning each mark like scripture.
"Beautiful," I whisper, because it's the only word that fits. Not despite the scars, but including them. All of her.
She shivers under my touch, but presses closer. "Your turn," she murmurs, hands exploring the planes of my chest, the old wounds that mark my own history. Her fingers are soft, curious, mapping me like she wants to memorize every inch.
I cup her face, thumb brushing over her bottom lip. When she parts her lips and presses a kiss to my thumb, the simple gesture nearly undoes me.
"Bree," I breathe, and she answers by pulling me down to her mouth.
The kiss is slow, deep, tasting of trust and desire. Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me to her like she's afraid I might disappear. But I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever, if she'll have me.
My hands shake as I work at the fastenings of her remaining clothes, her helping, both of us urgent now but still careful. Still reverent. When skin finally meets skin completely, we both go still for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sensation.
When I lift her onto the stone wall, she wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me closer, her breath warm against my throat. The rough stone presses against her back, but she doesn't seem to care. All her attention is on me, on us, on this moment.
"I choose this," she says against my ear, voice barely a whisper. "I choose you."
The words hit me like lightning. Not just permission—choice. Active, deliberate selection of me, of this moment, of whatever comes after.
"Are you certain?" I ask one more time, because I need to be sure. Need to know this is what she wants.
Her answer is to guide me to her. I gasp her name as I press inside her slowly, carefully. The feeling of being joined with her—body and soul—is indescribable. Like finding something I didn't even know I'd lost.
"Thane." My name on her lips sounds like prayer, like benediction, like home.
I move slowly at first, watching her face in the moonlight, learning what makes her breath catch, what makes her arch against me. She's responsive, open, meeting each movement with her own. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to ground us both.
She arches again, breath catching. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” she whispers.
And fuck if that doesn’t ruin me.
"More," she says softly.
Who am I to deny her anything?
