He pushes into me with a deep, hungry insistence. His mouth finds the side of my neck, kissing hard, dragging heat up my skin as he takes his time sliding into me.
“I love you, baby,” I exhale, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
“I love you so much more, baby,” he breathes into my mouth, kissing me deeper as his pace intensifies. His ragged breathing sends sparks of pleasure rushing through me, moaning as his body smothers mine, thrusting in and out of me.
He takes his time fucking me, pushing me through wave after wave until I’m shaking, desperate for that final release he keeps dragging just out of reach. But he never eases up—if anything, he gets harsher, more demanding, like he’s chasing something in me only he knows how to find. Every shift of his body tears another helpless sound from my throat, my whole body strung out on the edge he refuses to let me fall from.
My nails dig into his back, and the familiar surge of heat rises through me—blinding, and impossible to hold in. A sharp, explosive wave hits me all at once, my pussyclenching around him with a force that rips the air from my lungs. The rush is so violent, so consuming, my whole body shakes beneath him as everything inside me finally lets go.
“That’s it, baby… let it all out for me,” he groans, his hands guiding me slowly as my release fades in sharp, breathless waves.
His grip tightens around my waist, his movements turning fierce, urgent—driven by a need he’s not afraid to show. He thrusts into me with a raw, shuddering release that rips a deep growl from his chest.
He collapses beside me with a shaky “Damn, Jainey,” pulling me back against him, my ass flush against his still-hard length, his skin damp and hot against my spine. He holds me close, face tucked into the curve of my shoulder, our breaths uneven and tangled as our bodies slowly come down together.
Pulling the blanket over us, I melt back into the heat of his body, my eyes fluttering as his arm tightens around me.
Chapter Twenty Four
The Bullshit
M
y room doesn’t even feel like mine anymore—it feels like ours. And it’s wild how easily it all happened. His socks on the floor, his hoodie draped over my chair, his keys dropped wherever he feels like leaving them… it should bother me, but it doesn’t.
Not really.
It’s just proof that he’s here, that I’m not waking up alone anymore. The furniture’s shifted, the vibe’s shifted—everything has—but somehow, I’ve learned to accept it.
At first, I told myself letting go of my clean, minimal aesthetic was growth. Maturity. Whatever makes it easier to share a space with someone I love.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the calm my room used to give me. The brightness. The order.
Now it’s a mix of my softness and his lived-in energy.
Sometimes it feels like a lot—the way his presence spills into every corner of the house without trying. But the second I hear that laugh or breathe in that scent?
It softens everything.
It reminds me why I said yes to all of this in the first place.
And that’s the part that gets me. For all the mess and all the change, having him beside me feels more like home than the silence ever did. Comfort has a way of blurring out clarity, and maybe that’s what’s happening here.
My doubts haven’t disappeared—they’ve just folded themselves beneath the he loves me.
Waking up next to Levy every morning still feels like my favorite part of the day. It’s been two months since he moved in, and it’s been really, really good.
Most of the time.
When he’s not on night shift, he’s FaceTiming me on his breaks—checking in, joking around, smiling at me like I’m the only thing keeping him sane. It feels sweet… even if there are moments where it edges a little past sweet. But that’s love is… right? Wanting to be close all the time? So I try not to overthink it. We cook together, sneak in little dates, play pretend like we’ve already mastered the whole “grown couple” thing.
But lately, something’s… shifting. Whenever we’re out, the check somehow drifts to me. And yeah, I end up paying it.
Every time.
I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal—that relationships are give-and-take, that I’m just doing my part. But sometimes, being the one who’s doing all the giving starts tofeel heavy, especially when I’m the one not working right now. He forgets that part—not on purpose, I don’t think. Just… comfortably.
When he first moved in, we made a plan. He’ll cover the daily stuff, while I keep paying my half of the rent. Simple. Something I thought we both felt good about. But as month three rolls in, suddenly fair, is starting to look a little lopsided. I’ve been picking up pieces that aren’t suppose to be mine, telling myself it’s fine, that it’s just a phase.
