“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered, unable to look away from the way he moved for me, the way he let go in my hands.
“Tyler,” he panted, voice catching on a desperate cry as his rhythm grew erratic, chasing the edge. “God… don’t stop. Please?—”
“I’ve got you, baby,” I groaned, gripping him tighter, guiding his pace as I drove into him, harder now, deeper, then letting go to wrap my hand around his cock—thick, flushed deep red, slick at the tip, pulsing hot and heavy. He jerked at the contact, a breathless, desperate sound breakingfrom him as I stroked him, matching each glide of my hand to the rhythm of our bodies.
“God,” he breathed. “You feel so good.”
I stilled for a moment, giving him time to adjust, but Marcus moved his hips, urging me deeper, taking everything I gave him. He leaned over, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise, eyes closed.
“Look at me,” I rasped. “I want to see you.”
His eyes opened, wide and shining. “I love you,” he whispered, voice wrecked.
“I love you, too,” I groaned, driving into him harder now, our bodies slick and moving in perfect rhythm. “Always.”
He shattered first, his whole body tensing, back arching, as he came with a hoarse cry, marking my chest. The moment he fell apart, I lost control, burying myself as deep as I could, spilling into him with a groan that tore from my chest. My world narrowed to nothing but him—the heat, the closeness, the love anchoring us both.
When we collapsed together, sweaty and breathless, I held him close, pressing soft kisses to his temple, his jaw, anywhere I could reach.
“You’re everything to me,” I whispered, my voice raw with emotion.
His arms tightened around me, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. “You too, Ty. Always.”
The date was set.
Just saying that to myself made my stomach hurt. Four weeks from now. Four weeks until the next round of grafts, until I handed my body back over to doctors and knives and long white corridors that smelled like antiseptic and fear.
But this time was different.
I chose this.
For weeks after telling Marcus I was ready, I’d half-waited for the panic to hit, for my mind to spiral as it always used to. But it didn’t. Not like before. The nightmares still came most nights, but they weren’t dragging me under as they once did. And during the day… I was okay. Better than okay, sometimes.
Jess sent new photos of Eli every few days, his gummy smile bright on my phone screen. I FaceTimed with them as often as I could, and every time Eli squealed and slapped his little hands against the camera, something warm settled in my chest.
I helped Morgan with Gabbi, too—tiny, perfect Gabbi, who liked to pull at my hoodie strings and babble as if she were telling me all the secrets of the universe. Morgan called me the baby whisperer, which always made me laugh because six months ago, I couldn’t have imagined holding a baby, let alone finding comfort in it.
And then there was the cooking class. I still wasn’t sure how Marcus had convinced me to join that first week, but I kept going. I’d gotten pretty damn good at baking. I’d also done my first research into a music therapy program based in Chicago. It wouldn’t start until the following semester, but in the meantime, I was doing what I could at Guardian Hall to help Marcus with a full program for the other veterans. That meant a couple of meetings with Cole, who seemed happy to visit as often as we needed—eager, maybe, to see where his donation was being invested and how his support was shaping the program’s foundation.
Underneath it all, the weight of the surgery sat heavily, but Marcus had been my anchor through all of it. He never pushed, never hovered too close. Just stayed right there beside me, steady and patient. His calm felt like a tether when my own strength wavered.
Some nights, when the fear tried to claw its way back in, he’d pull me close, lace our fingers together, and remind me softly:You’re safe. You’re here. You’re home.
Making love helped.
The morningof the surgery arrived faster than I expected. No amount of preparation could stop the way my stomach twisted as Marcus drove us to the hospital. The city slipped past the window like a blur I couldn’t focus on, my pulse loud in my ears.
I kept flexing my fingers in my lap, restless, trying to ground myself. Marcus didn’t push the conversation. Instead, his hand rested on my thigh, steady, warm, always there. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with all the things we didn’t need to say.
When we pulled into the parking lot, Marcus turned off the engine and turned toward me. “You okay?”
I managed a breath, my throat tight. “I will be.”
He reached over, threading our fingers together. “You’ve got this, Ty.”
Inside, the familiar antiseptic smell hit me like a punch to the gut. For a second, I froze in the hallway, but Marcus stayed right beside me, grounding me again with a quiet squeeze of my hand.
Check-in was a blur of paperwork and soft-voiced nurses in scrubs. Before I knew it, I was in a hospital gown, lying on a narrow bed under too-bright lights, monitors beeping around me. My heart pounded, but I kept my breathing slow, just as Marcus had taught me.
