My legs wrap around him instinctively, pulling him in, deeper, closer. He groans again, a low, broken sound he tries to swallow but can’t.
“You feel…” I can’t finish. The words break apart under the heat curling low in my stomach.
He cups my jaw with one hand, kissing me gently, his hips rolling into mine in unhurried strokes that drag against every nerve ending I have. A rhythm that feelslike devotion, not desperation, sends heat flooding through me. Tightening every muscle in my body until I’m arching, clinging, whispering his name like it’s the only thing holding me together.
“I love you,” he whispers against my lips, voice raw and trembling. “I love you so much.”
My fingers trace his jaw, sliding through his hair, pulling him closer. “I love you, too.”
His thrusts stay slow but grow deeper, more intentional, like every movement is a promise and everything he doesn’t have the right words to say all in one. His mouth finds mine again, kisses messy and hot and trembling at the edges. Heat coils tight inside me, winding and pulling and building with every breath he drags out of me.
“Kyle… I’m close,” I whisper, burying my face against his neck as the world narrows to him, to us, to the heat between our bodies.
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Let go, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
I break with a soft cry, body arching into him. Pleasure crashes through me in waves that leave me shaking and weightless. Kyle follows a heartbeat later, thrusting deep once more as a low, guttural groan rips from his chest. His forehead presses to mine, breath uneven, body trembling against me as he spills into the condom.
He holds himself inside me through every shudder, forehead pressed to mine, hearts racing like they’re trying to reach each other through bone and skin. When he finally pulls out, he does it gently,whispering my name like he’s afraid I’ll vanish at any moment. He kisses me once reverently before slipping away to take care of the condom. Then he’s back with a warm cloth, kneeling beside me on the couch like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to touch wrong. He cleans me with the gentlest hands I’ve ever felt, his thumb brushing soothing circles across my hip.
When he’s done, he sets the cloth aside and climbs onto the couch behind me, pulling me carefully into his chest. I curl into him without thinking, my cheek pressed over his heartbeat. His hand slides up my arm, over my shoulder, into my hair. He presses his lips to the crown of my head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers again, kissing the top of my head. “You’re safe with me.”
My fingers curl into his ribs, holding him close enough that there’s no space left between us. “I know,” I whisper, breath catching, and for the first time in years, I believe it.
I wake up to a slow, steady rise and fall beneath my cheek, a heartbeat thudding against my ear like a quiet drum. For a second, I don’t move. I float there in the space between sleep and whatever comes next, eyes closed, breathing in the faint mix of detergent, his shampoo, and something that’s just… him. I realize my fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt. He must have pulled it back on at some point. The hem bunches in my fist like a lifeline. My legs are tangled with his beneath the blanket, and my bare skin grazes his shin with each heavy breath. It’s disorienting how right it feels.
I peel my eyes open slowly, letting the room come into focus. The blinds are half-drawn, thin stripes of pale morning light cutting across the room in gentle lines. Kyle is on his back, head turned slightly toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped loosely around my waist. His fingers rest at my hip, not gripping, just there, because even in sleep, he couldn’t quite let go.
His face looks softer like this, with less weight in the lines between his brows. His mouth is relaxed, the constant tension around it gone. I watch his chest rise and fall, and every breath feels like proof he’s still here. I’ve seen him in so many states now—laughing, furious, hurt, defensive, cocky—but the unguarded version is the one that scares me the most because it’s the one I want.
He shifts a little in his sleep, fingers flexing at my hip, and I freeze, half afraid of waking him and the other half afraid of what happens if I don’t. Memories from last night flicker behind my eyes. His mouth chantingI love youagainst my skin, the way he held me like I might break but never once treated me like I was fragile. The way I finally said the words out loud and didn’t drown inthem.
“I love you,”I’d whispered, and for one impossible, terrifying moment, I’d let myself believe loving him didn’t mean I would lose everything else.
I swallow hard, eyes burning, as the old script tries to slot back in.
This is too fast. Too dangerous. You shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t have stayed.
But with my body pressed against his, as much as the fear tries to claw its way up my throat, there’s another truth sitting just as stubbornly in my ribs. I don’t want to move. I do, though. Eventually. I ease my hand off his shirt and slide my leg away from his. His arm slips from around my waist and lands on the mattress with a soft thud, but he doesn’t wake. I push up on one elbow, watching his face for any sign that I’ve disturbed him.
“Of course, you sleep through this,” I whisper, a tiny, shaky smile tugging at my mouth.
My muscles protest when I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body reminds me of all the ways he touched me last night. Heat flares low in my stomach, mingling with something embarrassingly close to pride. I let myself be present for all of it.
The floor is cool under my feet as I stand and pull one of his shirts off the back of a chair and slide it over my head. The soft and worn fabric hit mid-thigh on me. I take one last glance back at the bed and giggle. Kyle stretches his hand toward the spot where I was moments ago, fingers curled as if they’re still holding me. I pad quietly out of the bedroom, pretending for afew stolen seconds that the world hasn’t quite decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet.
In the kitchen, I flick on the small lamp over the counter instead of the main light. The warm glow pools over the marble, catching on the stainless-steel appliances and the mug sitting in the drying rack. I reach for the coffee machine, giving my hands something to do that isn’t shaking. Thankfully, this is a simple coffee maker, and I manage to find everything I need after only opening two cabinets. While the coffee is brewing, I notice my phone sitting on the counter where I must have dropped it last night. My fingertips itch to check it for any more headlines, but I ignore it and leave it sitting face down on the countertop.
I make a cup of coffee for Kyle and me, but my eyes keep drifting back to the phone. A small, rectangular weight dragging at the edge of my vision, a promise that whatever we said to each other last night doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Eventually, the not knowing gets louder than the caution, and I set my mug down, wiping damp palms on the hem of his shirt, and reach for it. The screen lights up the second I tap it, and there are notifications everywhere.
Missed calls from Janine with so many more emails flagged“Urgent.” Social media apps stacked with red numbers look obscene in the quiet of his kitchen. My thumb hovers over the first app.
Don’t. Just grab the cups of coffee and crawl back into bed. Let yourself have a morning, just once.
I tap the screen, expecting the usual mess, but whatI get instead is a fresh trending banner I haven’t seen before. A headline published twenty minutes ago. The top story is a brand-new photo, not the grainy garage shot from the previous night, but something worse: me walking into the Timberwolves building yesterday morning. Someone zoomed in just enough to catch the exhaustion on my face, the tension in my shoulders, the way I kept my head down like I could hide in the pavement. The headline hits harder than anything I’ve seen yet.
PR Girl Meltdown? Alycia Torres seen in tears after late-night blowup with Hendrix.
