He bends, pressing his mouth to my forehead.
Then my nose.
Then, my lips again—soft, sealing.
“You don’t have to earn this,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to bleed for it. You don’t have to survive it.”
A sob tears loose from somewhere deep and ugly inside me. I bury my face against his shoulder, fingers digging into his back like I’m afraid he’ll evaporate if I loosen my grip.
“I just…” My words splinter. “I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” he says.
Not like a promise.
Like a sentence.
“Not while I’m breathing.”
He shifts us, drawing me fully against him, our bodies lined up, our legs tangled. His arm bands around my waist, his hand atthe small of my back, holding me so close, I can feel his warmth and heartbeat.
When we finally move again—when it becomes bodies instead of tears—it isn’t frantic.
It’s slow.
Deliberate.
Every touch is a question.Every touch is an answer.
Every kiss is an affirmation.
The rain intensifies, drumming on the roof in uneven bursts. The bed creaks softly beneath us. Time stretches and then disappears.
For the first time in my life, I am not counting seconds, not waiting for it to be over.
I sink into him instead.
When it’s finally done—when we’re both shaking, breathless, stripped down to bone and nerve—we lie tangled beneath the blankets, his arm heavy across my waist, my cheek resting in the warm hollow of his throat.
The world loses its edges.
It’s just this.
Him.
His heartbeat.
The rain.
I draw in a breath, and for once, it doesn’t hurt.
I don’t flinch.
I don’t brace for the next blow.
I just exist.
Safe.
