His hand rests on my thigh at the first stoplight. Not possessive. Just there. His thumb presses once, slow and grounding.
Like he’s reminding both of us this is real. Or maybe just himself.
I feel it everywhere.
When we get to his place, he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grab. He lets me walk in first, watches me take in the space like I haven’t already been here before.
Like he’s seeing it through my eyes this time.
The door closes behind us.
That’s when he exhales.
Slow. Controlled. Like he’s been holding himself together all night.
I turn to him.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
This is the part where I’d normally make a joke. Deflect. Shift the air.
I don’t.
Then his hands come to my waist.
Firm. Certain.
When he kisses me, it’s deep but unhurried, like he’s finally done pretending patience is easy. I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the tension there, the heat.
God. Of course he’s like this. Of course this is how he kisses.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
I already am.
We undress each other slowly.
Not fumbling. Not rushed.
His jacket comes off first. Then mine. His fingers work the buttons of my dress with deliberate care, eyes never leaving my face, like he’s checking in without asking.
I let him. I want him to see every reaction.
My hands slip under his shirt, warm skin under my palms. I pull it over his head and he lets me, smiling faintly like this is something he’s been waiting for.
As if he hasn’t been.
When my dress slides down, his hands follow it, steady, reverent. He pauses once, just to look.
And somehow that pause does things to me.
“You’re sure,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
That’s all it takes.
Clothes fall away in pieces, exchanged, discarded, until there’s nothing left between us but heat and intent.
