"Is that how you live with it? The things you've done?"
"It's how I try." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're not a monster, Kai. You're a man who did what needed to be done. There's a difference."
I leaned into his touch, let his warmth ground me. "I don't want to become someone I don't recognize."
"You won't. Because you're asking the question." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "The ones who lose themselves are the ones who stop caring. You still care. That's what makes you who you are."
Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them back, but one escaped anyway. Axel caught it with his thumb, brushed it away.
"Come inside," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
"The mission?—"
"Is six hours away. Right now, there's nothing to do but wait." He stood, offered his hand. "Let me give you something else to think about."
I took his hand. Let him lead me inside.
The bedroom was small, simple—just a bed, a dresser, curtains that filtered the dying light into something soft and amber. Axel closed the door behind us, and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of us.
"I almost lost you," he said, pulling me close." When Slash had you cornered?—"
"You didn't lose me."
"But I could have." His hands framed my face, tilted it up. "And I realized something, standing there covered in Viper's blood. I realized that nothing else matters if you're not okay. Not revenge, not justice, not any of it."
"Axel—"
"Let me say this." His voice was rough. "I've spent my whole life being strong. Being the one who protects, who fights, who never shows weakness. And then you came along, and you made me realize that strength isn't about never needing anyone. It's about letting someone in anyway."
He kissed me—soft, tender, nothing like our desperate encounters before. This was different. This was reverence.
"I need you," he whispered against my lips. "Not just your body. All of you. Every broken piece, every fear, every scar you carry. I want all of it."
"You have it." I kissed him back, trying to pour everything I couldn't say into the contact. "You've had it since the beginning."
We undressed each other slowly. No urgency tonight—just the quiet intimacy of studying each other's bodies by touch. His hands traced my ribs, my hips, the curve of my spine. My fingers mapped the scars on his chest, the tattoos on his arms, the places where violence had written its history on his skin.
"Lie down," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."
I obeyed. Stretched out on the bed, vulnerable, trusting. He covered me with his body, and the weight of him was grounding—an anchor in the chaos.
He kissed his way down my chest. My abs. Lower. When his mouth found my cock, I gasped, my body trembling with excitement.
"Just feel," he said against my skin. "Don't think. Just feel."
He worked me slowly, thoroughly—none of the desperate urgency of before. Every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, every movement designed to build pleasure in waves. I floated on it, let myself drift, let the horrors of the last two days fade into the background.
"Axel—" I was trembling, close. "I need?—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled off, reached for the lube, prepared me with patient fingers. One, then two, then three, working me open until I was boneless, aching, desperate, and steel hard.
When he finally pushed inside, it felt like coming home.
"Look at me," he said.
I opened my eyes, met his gaze. Grey eyes, soft with something that looked like wonder.
