“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Sadie whispered, and meant it.
He kissed her again, with a tenderness that undid her completely. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, and Sadie knew with bone-deep certainty that nothing would ever be the same. It was beautiful, irrevocable, and precisely as it was meant to be.
March 22, 2025
-Corbyn-
Sadie’s fingers traced along his arm as he pulled her closer, one of his hands tangled in her hair, the other settling on her waist. Corbyn felt his pulse quicken, and for once it wasn’t from the all-too-familiar feeling of panic, but something more profound, like finding a haven in a storm.
They had been standing like this for minutes now, the need for air forcing them to pull apart after another heated kiss. When she looked up at him, her eyes were soft, and he found himself leaning his forehead against hers without conscious thought.
“Corbyn,” she reached up to frame his face. The gentle touch grounded him in this moment, allowing him to believe this was real. She was here with him, her skin soft against his, and so much better than anything he’d ever imagined.
He caught her hands, holding them against his face for a heartbeat.
“I’ve wanted this,” he said quietly, “wanted you for weeks now.”
“I know,” she said, a small smile playing on her mouth. “So have I.”
He captured her lips with his once more, but this kiss was different from their desperate moments that had brought them here. This was exploration, slow and deep, a promise built on discovery. His hand traveled down her side to her waist once more, fingertips brushing the strip of skin where her sweater had lifted. He felt her shiver at the delicate contact as goosebumps rose on her flesh.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching,” she whispered against his mouth. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
He huffed a laugh, whispering back, “Who said I was trying to be subtle?”
She pulled him in for another kiss, and this time, his hands were bolder. They slid under her sweater to span her back, relearning the language of touch. A soft sigh, and the hint of a moan, escaped her lips. It made his body hum with need. When her fingers went to his shirt buttons, though, he pulled back suddenly.
“Wait,” he said as she reached the third button. At her questioning look, he took a breath. “I know you’ve seen them before, but I…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“But what?” she asked softly, her fingers stilling on his shirt. When he didn’t answer immediately, she added, “We can stop if you’re not ready.”
He shook his head, not willing to entertain that idea. Instead, he finished unbuttoning the shirt himself, muscle memory compensating for his left hand’s weakness.
She didn’t gasp, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched her fingers trace the air above his skin, not touching, but close enough to feel her warmth.
“May I?” she asked, looking up to meet his eyes, seeking his permission.
He nodded, remembering how she’d touched his hand that day with the arnica cream, how gentle she’d been. Now he stood still, letting her explore.
“That morning by the pool,” she said quietly, her fingertips finding the most prominent scar. “I need you to know that the scars weren’t all I saw. They weren’t even the first thing I noticed.” She looked up at him. “I saw your strength. Someone who keeps going despite everything. Who still swims and stays active. Someone who still pushes forward.”
He shivered—the nerves there were damaged, sensation dulled in some places, hypersensitive in others. His voice was rough when he answered, “You looked away so quickly. I thought…”
“I looked away because I was trying to be professional,” she said, her fingers growing bolder as they mapped the geography she’d only glimpsed before. “Because you seemed so guarded, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“I was. But not anymore,” he told her, catching her hand and resting it over his heart. “Not with you.”
She rose to kiss him then, her lips claiming his. She only lingered there for a moment before he felt her lips trail along his jaw, pressing soft kisses across his skin. She followed the line of his throat, her teeth grazing his skin.
“Sadie,” he breathed, his body going taut.
She continued tracing downward, her mouth finding the place where neck met shoulder, then lower still. The first scar she encountered was where the fire had kissed his skin more gently. It was pink and smooth, the texture like silk that had been crumpled and pressed flat again. He felt her lips coast over the marred flesh, a soft touch that had him tense for a moment on instinct before his body relaxed.
The next was angrier, where the flames had bitten deeper. It was ridged and ropy, the skin puckered and tight across hiscollarbone. This one she traced with her tongue, and a low moan escaped him at the sensation, at the way she was claiming every inch of him.
Finally, she reached the scar over his heart. There, the flames had been the hottest. The skin here was a landscape that spun a story of survival, mottled and rippled like candle wax. She pressed her lips there, lingered, felt his chest rise and fall with shuddering breaths.
Something cracked open in his chest at that touch, that complete acceptance.
