We move together like a memory we’re making as we go—her nails scratch lightly at my shoulders; my fingers draw slow circles at her waist. The world blurs—just our breath, the couch creaking, the distant hum of the city like static. I tuck her closer, letting the weight and heat of her settle the last of the storm inside me.
We’re chasing the same thing now—a way out of the fight, a way back to each other.
“Ash,” she breathes, and it sounds like please.
“Yes,” I say, and it sounds like I will.
My hand slides to the small of her back again, guiding, anchoring, and she arches into me. I cradle her head with my other hand, thumb stroking her temple, keeping her close. Every kiss is a decision. Every breath is consent. Every movement says more than either of us can right now.
“Tell me what you need,” I say into her mouth.
“You,” she whispers. “All of you. Right now.”
Need flares bright and clean. I kiss her hard, then slow again, unwilling to rush the thing that’s saving me. The bruise throbs, a dull echo of earlier, but her hands on me are louder. Her mouth is louder. Her yes is the loudest thing in the room.
“Then take it,” I say, and she does—meeting me, matching me, leading and following in turns. The heat builds like music—steady, climbing, inevitable. The angry edges inside me soften, dissolve, are replaced by something raw and honest.
When we finally align and she sinks down onto me, my breath leaves in one long, rough exhale. She’s warm and tight around me, and I can feel the faint tremor in her thighs. I grip her hips gently, anchoring her, my thumbs stroking her skin. “Take your time,” I tell her, because I want this to be hers as much as mine.
Her fingers thread through my hair, her forehead dropping to mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words hit like a chord I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hear. My hands slide up her back, pulling her closer until our chests are pressed together. We move like that—slow, deep, staying connected everywhere we can. Her mouth brushes mine with each breath. Sometimes she kisses me, sometimes she just lets the space fill with quiet.
And yeah, it’s intense. My whole body’s humming with it.
Every so often, she murmurs something against my skin. “Feels good.” “Stay with me.” “You’re not alone.” I answer in the only ways I can—hands on her, lips at her throat, the steady rhythm of us together.
We shift without losing contact—me rolling her beneath me, our legs tangling. She wraps around me, ankles locking at the small of my back. My mouth finds her shoulder, tasting salt and heat. Her nails skim my ribs, light but enough to make me shiver.
Her eyes catch mine again, and the way she’s looking at me… it’s not casual. It’s not fake. It’s not even safe, if I’m honest. It’s real in a way that makes me want to both pull her closer and run like hell.
Instead, I kiss her—long, slow, like I’m pouring something into her I can’t name. She kisses back the same way. Our bodies move together, unhurried but certain, every shift drawing another gasp, another whispered word.
I can feel her building beneath me, the tension in her thighs, the way her breath comes quicker. I keep my pace steady, keep my mouth on hers, because this is about staying with her the whole way. Her fingersgrip my jaw, holding me there as she tips over the edge, her eyes locked on mine the entire time.
Watching her fall apart like that—close, quiet, still holding on to me—undoes me in turn. I press my forehead to hers, groaning low as the heat coils tight and snaps. I stay buried in her, shaking with it, my breath ragged against her cheek.
When it ebbs, I don’t pull away. I can’t. I just stay there, my body draped over hers, our heartbeats syncing in the leftover heat.
We lie like that, not talking. I smooth her hair. She traces circles on my chest. That’s when I feel something trickling down my chest.
Wet.
Just a little.
At first, I think it’s sweat. But then it trails slowly across my chest in a way that has nothing to do with heat or friction.
Tears.
She’s crying.
Panic flashes through me.
“Olive?” I murmur, my hand stilling on her back.
She doesn’t pull away. She shifts slightly, lifting her head just enough to meet my eyes.
And what I see there—Jesus. I forget how to breathe.
