He lets me.
Lets me unbutton the front of his shirt, one loop at a time.
Lets me trace every mark, every scar, every forgotten line of war on his chest like I’m relearning him from memory.
Lets me breathe him in—salt and soap and warmth.
I say his name. Not as a question. But as a truth.
“Jav.”
His hands find mine.
Not greedy.
Not even hungry.
Justpresent.
When I ease him back onto the mattress, I can feel his breath catch—but he doesn’t stop me.
I settle over him, straddling his hips, my fingertips grazing the curve of his ribs.
I watch his face.
Not because I need reassurance.
But because I want to see the way his guard falls.
Because I need to be sure he knows.
“I’m not doing this because I miss what we were,” I murmur.
He opens his eyes, meeting mine.
“I’m doing this because of who you are now,” I say. “Because of who I am now.”
He swallows hard. “And who’s that?”
I lean in close.
“The woman who chooses you.”
His breath shudders.
I kiss him again—softer, deeper.
Like saying it twice.
Time folds.
The night outside slips away.
There’s only skin and breath and hands rediscovering language without words.
There’s only the small, honest noises that break free between us.
There’s only his mouth on my palm and my name in his throat and the rhythm of two people trying to remember what it feels like to belong.
