She doesn’t look away as her fingers find the hem of her top, lifting it over her head and letting it fall beside her. My gaze stays on her face—always on her—until she reaches for my shirt and draws it up and over my head.
Then her hand comes up to my chest, where I had the tattoo of her name added over my heart after she left. Not Queenie, but Eden. She traces the letters but says nothing. Then she cups the back of my neck and pulls me in for another kiss.
“Can we just . . . lie together?” she asks.
I nod, lying back against the soft pillows, my arm outstretched. She carefully slides closer, laying her cheek to my chest. Then she guides my arm around her.
“It’s been so long,” she whispers.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My emotions are clogging my throat, so I just give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
The steady weight of her cheek against my chest feels unreal, sacred. I stare up at the ceiling, afraid that if I move too fast or breathe too hard, I’ll break whatever fragile peace we’ve found.
“It has,” I murmur finally. “Too long.”
Her fingers curl lightly into the skin at my side. I feel the rise and fall of her breaths, slow and measured, syncing with mine without effort. The baby shifts between us, a gentle roll that makes my chest tighten all over again.
I drop my chin, resting it against the top of her head. Her hair smells like summer and something warm underneath—like home, if I’m honest with myself.
“I don’t feel scared like I thought I would,” she says quietly.
I swallow hard. “That’s good,” I whisper. “And this feels nice.”
She hums softly in agreement, her body relaxing inch by inch. The tension I didn’t realise she was holding eases, and I feel it when her weight sinks fully into me,trusting.
My hand moves on instinct, slow and deliberate, resting flat against her back, my fingers gently grazing her skin.
Every part of me wants to promise her forever. To swear I’ll never leave, never fail her again.
But tonight isn’t about that, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t take over. That everything would be on her say so, at her pace.
Her hand rests against my thigh.
I still, waiting for her to stop, to realise and change her mind. But she continues to move slowly, deliberately, like every inch forward is a decision she’s making as she moves.
“Is it okay if I . . .” she whispers.
I swallow, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, forcing my body to stay where it is. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Ifyoufeel comfortable.”
She watches my face as much as her own hand, checking me, gauging whether I’m okay as she traces the bulge in my jeans. When she shifts closer, my breath catches despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
“I want to,” she murmurs. “I just . . . I need to know if I can.”
“There’s no pressure,” I remind her gently, threading my fingers through her hair. “We can stop. Anytime. No questions.”
She nods, pushing herself upright. “I need to be in control,” she admits, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Okay,” I say immediately.
“I can’t be under you,” she adds, like the words surprise even her.
“That’s fine,” I tell her. “Whatever you need.”
She moves with purpose now, standing and slowly undressing. I don’t look away. I don’t rush her. When she glances up at me, searching my face, I let her see the truth there—want, yes, but patience first.Always.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Absolutely stunning.”
Her smile is shy, almost disbelieving, as her hands cradle her bump for a moment. It’s the best view I’ve ever witnessed.
