“They’re part of you, and that makes them beautiful to me.”
He relaxed into my touch, and his expression shifted—vulnerability giving way to determination. He pulled me onto the bed beside him, and suddenly, we were a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing, hands exploring with increasing urgency.
I took my time, learning what made him gasp and his eyes flutter closed. When my fingers tracedthe waistband of his jeans, he nodded, whispering, “Please.”
The world narrowed to only us—both of us removing clothes, the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the way he said my name… it was everything.
I took my time, watching his expression as my hand slipped beneath the fabric. Tyler’s eyes closed, his head tilting back as a soft sigh escaped his throat.
“What if it doesn’t work, what if I…” He sounded broken.
“Then I’ll kiss you forever and find a million other ways for us to love each other.”
“Fuck, Marcus.”
“Is what I’m doing okay?” I whispered, needing to hear him say it.
“More than okay,” he breathed, his hips lifting into my touch. He was growing hard from my touch, and when I wrapped my hand around him, his whole body trembled. I set a slow rhythm, learning what he liked by the catch in his breath, the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. His hands gripped my shoulders, fingers digging in enough to ground us both.
“Marcus,” he gasped, and my name had never sounded so perfect.
I kissed him deeply as he covered my hand with his and closed his fingers around me. “Together,” he moaned.
I nodded, unable to form words, as his touch sent electricity through me. We moved together, finding a rhythm that had us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, occasionally catching each other’s lips in messy, desperate kisses.
“I won’t last,” Tyler warned, his voice strained, eyes half-closed.
“Me neither,” I admitted, my free hand cupping his face, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “I don’t care.”
His expression, the flush across his chest, and the way he shouted my name pushed me over the edge. Heat coiled low in my spine, and I came with a low groan, my body locking as pleasure washed through me in sharp, consuming waves. It wasn’t just the physical release—it was everything: the trust in his eyes, the flush of his skin, the way he’d given himself to me so completely. For a moment, all the noise in my head went quiet, and all that remained was him—us—wrapped in warmth and something perfect.
We lay tangled together afterward, catching our breath, my head on his chest. The Christmas lights from my tiny tree cast patterns across his body as I traced freckles on his skin with gentle fingertips.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
Tyler’s hand found mine, squeezing. “Better than okay.”
The vulnerability in his voice made something tighten in my chest. Tyler had survived so much, carried the weight of lost friends and traumatic memories, but was here in my arms, trusting me with his body and his heart.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, his fingers threading through my hair. “About loving you.”
I propped myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. His eyes were clear, steady. “I know you did. I meant it too.”
We cleaned up and settled back into bed. I rested my head on Tyler’s chest, his arm curved protectively around me. I listened to Tyler’s breathing as it slowed and deepened. His body relaxed against mine, heavy with approaching sleep, and I followed him.
The clock on my bedside table read 2:10 a.m. when the alert on my phone and watch woke meup. I extricated myself from Tyler’s arms, and he mumbled something unintelligible before settling back into sleep. I couldn’t help but smile. Seeing him like this—vulnerable, trusting—made my chest ache in the best possible way. Years of early shifts had trained my body to wake instantly—useful for work, less so on Christmas morning when I should be savoring every moment of Tyler’s warmth beside me. Something had caused the alarm—someone needed medical assistance -- and I was dressed and out of my room in a minute or less. I jogged down the stairs, landing at the bottom in my best superhero pose, and waited for the briefing from Alex, who gestured for me to come into the kitchen.
A man, gaunt, clearly desperate, and a crying baby. The fuck?
“Is she dying?” the man said, his voice cracking as he clutched the infant. “She won’t stop crying!”
I approached with caution, noting the tremor in his hands and the wildness in his bloodshot eyes. The baby, who couldn’t have been more than six months old, was wrapped in a ratty sweatshirt. Her small face was red from the cold and crying, and her breathing came in fussy whimpers of distress.
“I’m Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice steadydespite the alarm bells ringing. “I’m a doctor. Can I help?”
The man’s panicked gaze darted between me and Alex, who stood a few feet away.
“I had your card,” the man muttered. “Said you help veterans. No q-questions.” He was shivering. “I’m… was… I am…” He shook his head. “Corporal Morgan Armitage. This is my daughter.”
