I set the flashlight on the table, beam pointed up so it lights the ceiling and bounces soft glow around the room. “He’s not here. I checked the road coming in. No sign of his car.”
She nods, but the tension doesn’t leave her shoulders. “He knows where I live. He could come back.”
“If he does, he’ll have to get through me first.”
Her eyes meet mine, searching and vulnerable. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe me anything.”
I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I want to be.”
The admission hangs between us, quiet and heavy.
She looks away first, toward the candle flame. “Last night… you said it was a mistake.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you still think that?”
I exhale slowly. “I think I’m scared. What happens if I let myself want something good? Of what happens if I fail you the way I failed him?”
She turns back to me. “You didn’t fail Declan. You tried. You survived. That’s not failure.”
The words land soft, but they cut deep. I feel the old ache rise, guilt that’s lived in my bones so long it feels like part of me.
“I was supposed to bring him home,” I say quietly. “I promised myself I’d get him out. When the helo went down, I got to him. I had him. But the fire… the smoke… I couldn’t—” My voicecracks. I stop, swallow hard. “He told me to go. Said he was already gone. I didn’t listen until the flames were too close. I left him there.”
Tears shine in her eyes. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to die with him.”
“I know.” I rub a hand over my face. “Doesn’t stop the nightmares. Doesn’t stop me from waking up thinking I should’ve done more.”
She steps forward then until she’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of her through the damp chill of my jacket. She lifts a hand, rests it against my chest, right over my heart.
“You’re not broken, Ronan. You’re just… carrying too much. Let me help you carry it. Just for tonight.”
Her touch burns through the fabric. I cover her hand with mine, hold it there.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“You won’t.”
She rises on her toes and kisses me—soft, tentative, like she’s asking permission.
I answer by sliding my arms around her waist, pulling her close. The kiss deepens slowly. It’s gentle at first, then deeper, hungrier. Her fingers thread into my wet hair. I lift her easily and carry her to the bedroom without breaking contact.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the living-room candle that spills through the doorway. I set her on the bed, follow her down, and brace my weight on my forearms so I don’t crush her.
We undress each other with careful hands. There’s no rush, no desperation. Only quiet need. Her skin is warm against mine. I kiss every inch I uncover. Her collarbone, shoulder, and the soft curve of her breast. She arches under me, breath catching. When I settle between her thighs, she wraps her legs around my hips, pulls me closer.
I enter her slowly, watching her face, memorizing the way her lips part, the way her eyes flutter closed. She’s slick and ready, welcoming me home. We move together, unhurried, deep, every thrust measured and deliberate. Her nails score my back lightly. I kiss her throat, her jaw, her mouth, swallowing her soft moans.
It builds quiet and steady pleasure, coiling low and tight. When she comes, it’s with a soft cry against my shoulder, body trembling around me. I follow a moment later, burying myself deep, shuddering through the release, her name on my lips like a prayer.
We stay tangled after, our sweat cooling on our skin, and breaths slowing in tandem. I roll to my side, pull her against my chest. Her head tucks under my chin. My arm wraps around her waist, hand splayed across her stomach.
She traces lazy circles on my chest with her fingertip. “Stay,” she whispers.
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The storm rages outside, wind screaming, rain hammering the roof, but inside it’s quiet. Safe. Warm.
