"Are you sure?" he asked. "We don't have to — "
I silenced him with a kiss, pouring everything I couldn't say into the press of my lips against his. The fear, the exhaustion, the desperate need to feel something other than grief. He responded immediately, his arms tightening around me, pulling me closer.
We undressed each other slowly, carefully, like we had all the time in the world. His fingers traced the lines of my shoulders, the curve of my waist, mapping me with a reverence that made my breath catch. When his scrub top hit the floor, I pressed my palms against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my hands.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "So beautiful."
I'd never felt beautiful during sex before. Desired, yes. Wanted, certainly. But beautiful? That was new. That was Jimmy seeing something in me that I'd never seen in myself.
He guided me to his bed, his movements gentle but sure. When he settled over me, his weight warm and solid, I felt something I hadn't expected — safety. Not just physical safety, but emotional shelter. The weight of his body wasn't a burden; it was an anchor, grounding me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
"I've got you," he said again, his forehead resting against mine. "Let me take care of you."
For once in my life, I didn't fight those words. I didn't insist that I could take care of myself, didn't push back against the offer of protection. I just nodded and let myself sink into the feeling of being held, being cherished, being safe.
He undressed me slowly, like he needed to touch every part of me before I disappeared. His hands skimmed over my skin with maddening patience — his fingertips tracing down my arms, over my hips, the swell of my thighs.
Itwasn’t greedy. It wastender, reverent — like he was grounding himself in the shape of me. His palms molded to me, firm and unhurried, pulling me closer so I could feel every inch of him against me.
“Izzy,” he murmured against my throat, planting featherlight kisses along my collarbone.
I arched into him, needing more, needing everything. But he kept the pace slow, drawing it out like he wanted me to burn for it.
He kissed his way down the slope of one breast, then the other, his tongue teasing, his hands cradling the weight of them with aching gentleness. When he sucked a nipple into his mouth, my back bowed off the bed. I couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. “Let me feel you.”
His hands roamed everywhere — trailing down my ribs, stroking the dip of my waist, spreading heat with every pass of his fingers. When he reached between my thighs, I gasped at the brush of his touch — slow, purposeful, coaxing rather than demanding. He kissed the inside of my knee before pushing gently, guiding my legs open.
“Izzy. You’reperfect.”
When he finally came over me, I felt the full weight of him settle, and something in mebroke open.
I didn’t want to lead. Didn’t want to guide. I just wanted tofeel.
He kissed me then — mouth on mine, soft and consuming — while he pushed inside me with a slow, delicious stretch that made my whole body clench around him. This wasn't about passion or hunger — though both were there, simmering beneath the surface. This was about connection, about finding each other in the dark, about being present for this moment when everything else felt uncertain.
His hands framed my face as he moved above me, his eyesnever leaving mine. "Stay with me," he whispered, and I knew he meant more than just physically.
"I'm here," I whispered back. "I'm right here. I’m not going anywhere."
The rhythm we found was slow, deliberate, like we were trying to memorize each other. His weight pressed me into the mattress, surrounding me, creating a world that existed only for us. Every kiss, every touch, every soft sound he made was a promise that I wasn't alone, that someone saw me and wanted me exactly as I was.
He rocked into me with a rhythm that made the rest of the world vanish. No noise. No grief. Just skin and breath and the steady beat of his heart against my chest.
His hands framed my face, and then — God — he ran the back of his fingers down my cheek, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing every detail.
“Look at me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then the tip of my nose. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
My eyes burned. My body was wound so tight I couldn’t tell if I was crying or coming or both. He bent to kiss the tears from my cheeks, never breaking his rhythm.
When the pleasure built, it was like a warm tide rising, gentle but inevitable. I felt myself letting go in ways I'd never allowed before — not just physically, but emotionally. The walls I'd spent years building crumbled completely under the weight of his care, his attention, his absolute focus on me and what I needed.
"Let go," he breathed against my ear. "I've got you. Let go."
And I did. I let myself fall apart in his arms, let myself be vulnerable and open and human. The release was more than physical; it was a shattering of everything I thought I had to be, replaced by the simple truth of who I was when someone loved me well.
He followed me with a ragged breath, his whole bodyshuddering above me. And then he stayed — his weight resting on me, warm and heavy and safe.
