Every unspoken thing that finally found a voice.
Every barrier that fell away with a kiss.
The way it felt to touch him without fear, without history pulling us backwards.For once, the world didn’t feel like something I had to brace myself against—it felt like something opening.
I slide out of bed, tugging his crumpled shirt from the floor and pulling it over my head.It hangs off me in that effortless way men’s clothing does, brushing the tops of my thighs.It smells like him—soap, skin, a hint of cedar, and something I’ve never named but have always recognized.The kind of scent an expensive brand would market as quiet longing.
Music drifts up the stairs—soft, raw, unfinished.Guitar strings coaxed into something tender.I pause at the top step, letting the sound settle into me.Nate’s always been good, but this this is someone playing without armor.
When I step into the living room, he’s sitting on the couch, shirtless, head bent, hair falling over his forehead, completely lost in the sound he’s shaping.He stops midsong to scribble something in his notebook, frustration and inspiration fighting for dominance.
“What’s that one called?”
His head snaps up like I’ve caught him dreaming.And then—fuck—the way his expression softens the instant he registers it’s me.The way his gaze drags down my body in his shirt, slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the image.
“It doesn’t have a name yet,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
He stands, almost unconsciously drawn forward.
“Nora,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the hem where his shirt hits my thighs, “don’t hide.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were.”His thumb brushes my cheek, gentle in a way that makes my breath catch.
And then—because my body betrays me—I bite my lip.
Something dark flickers in his eyes, soft but sure, like a match quietly striking.
“Don’t do that either,” he whispers.His thumb grazes my lower lip.“Not unless you want me to lose my mind.”
I open my mouth to ask why, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
He answers with his mouth on mine—slow at first, then hungry, then absolutely gone.He kisses the exact spot I’d bitten like he’s been waiting for permission.
And then everything becomes a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter—me wrapped around him, him lifting me like gravity doesn’t apply to either of us.
He carries me upstairs, steady and certain, and the world dissolves into heat and longing and the dizzying familiarity of a body I’ve loved quietly for years.
Later, we’re tangled in sheets that smell like sweat, country side air, and whatever we’ve become.My head rests on his chest, my fingers tracing the elegant lines of his collarbone.
“What are you thinking about?”I ask.
He hesitates—not out of avoidance, but out of choosing the truest version of the truth.
“That we spent years building walls we thought were protecting us” he murmurs, voice roughened into something soft.“But really, they were just keeping everything real out.”
I lift my head slightly.“Is that what we were doing?”
His throat works as he swallows.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly.“And I think we were terrified that if we stopped fighting it, we’d have to face how much we actually mattered to each other.”
Before I can respond, my phone starts vibrating on the nightstand.
It’s Mom.
“Oh god.”Panic hits instantly.“I can’t—look at me—there’s no way?—”
