“I’m here,” I whisper, pressing my mouth to her shoulder, her throat, her lips. “I’m not letting go. I love you.”
She shudders, tears streaking her cheeks, and I kiss them away, thrusting deeper, harder, until we’re both trembling, undone. When she comes again, I follow, emptying myself inside her, claiming her, marking her, making her mine in every way that matters.
We collapse together, tangled and shaking. I pull her against my chest, wrap my arm around her, splay my hand over her belly. I feel her heartbeat steady, feel her breath even out, and for the first time all night, I start to believe she’s safe.
“I love you,” I say again, voice raw and fierce.
She lifts her head, eyes shining. “I love you too.”
Eden lies draped across my chest, her breath still uneven, her heartbeat echoing beneath my palm. Sweat beads at her hairline, and I brush it away, tucking loose strands behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense—just lets herself soften into me, our bodies tangled beneath the sheets.
I hold her close, feeling the last aftershocks of adrenaline slowly drain from my muscles. My hand never leaves her belly, as if by sheer will I can keep both her and our child safe.
Eden’s head rises and falls with every breath I take, and I can feel her smile, small and shaky, against my skin.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Words would feel too sharp in this fragile hush. Instead, I focus on the details: the rhythm of her pulse against my chest, the heat of her skin where her thigh presses against mine, the small shiver that runs through her when my thumb draws circles across her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I murmur finally, voice low, nearly swallowed by the darkness.
She nods, pressing her face into my chest. “I am now.” There’s a trembling honesty in her voice, a trust so complete it nearly undoes me.
I tilt her chin up, searching her eyes in the lamplight. Her lashes are damp, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my kisses. “I meant what I said,” I whisper, voice rough. “I love you. I’m never letting you go.”
A tear slides down her cheek—joy, relief, maybe a bit of leftover fear. I catch it with my thumb, brushing it away before it can fall.
“I know,” she says, her smile small but unbreakable. “I believe you.”
Something eases in my chest. I pull her up, guiding her to sit beside me so I can reach the nightstand. I pour a glass of water, pressing it into her hand, watching her drink, making sure her hands are steady.
She laughs a little, the sound light but real. “You’re fussing.”
“You scared me.” I stroke her arm, then settle my palm over her belly again. “He scared me.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “I should have—”
She shushes me, tracing my lips with her fingers. “You were there. That’s all that matters.”
The tension between us dissolves, replaced by something gentler—an intimacy more profound than desire. I gather the sheets around her, make sure she’s warm, then disappear into the bathroom for a damp cloth.
I clean her slowly, reverently, careful not to rush or startle her. She closes her eyes and lets me care for her, a quiet trust in every relaxed line of her body.
When I finish, I lie back beside her, cradling her against my side. She fits perfectly there, her head tucked under my chin, her hand resting over mine on her stomach. I pull the blankets up, cocooning us both from the world outside.
The room is warm, safe, full of the scent of sweat and sex and skin. My heartbeat slows as hers does, our breaths falling into an easy rhythm. I stroke her back, up and down, feeling the tension fade with every pass.
She shifts closer, pressing her nose to the hollow of my throat. “Will you be here when I wake up?” she asks, voice already thick with sleep.
“Yes.” The answer is automatic, the only promise I’ve ever meant without reservation.
Her hand finds mine, our fingers threading together. “Then I can sleep,” she murmurs. “Really sleep.”
I watch as her eyelids flutter, her breathing deepens, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling her under. The lines of worry and terror ease from her face, leaving her peaceful, beautiful, impossibly precious.
I hold her until I’m sure she’s lost to dreams. Only then do I allow myself to relax, to settle my head against the pillow, to let her warmth and her scent become the last thing I know before sleep claims me.
I drift on the edge of consciousness, one ear tuned to every sound—always listening, always vigilant, because I know the world isn’t done with us yet. For now, we are safe. She is safe. I will not let her go.
Before I follow her into sleep, I whisper into her hair, voice barely more than a promise to myself, “I love you. Nothing will ever take you from me.”
She stirs, just a little, and a soft smile curves her lips even as she sleeps. I draw her closer, my arm a shield around her and our child, and finally let the darkness take me.
