I don’t know what to say to that.Because she’s right.People will grieve a story.They’ll cry for a girl they never met and never will.And Cleo will watch the world mourn her while she sits here, breathing through it, pulse beneath my hand, alive.
And still disappearing.
She leans into me until her temple finds my shoulder.Her breath skims my throat.I press my mouth to her hairline—once, then again—quiet promises she can feel.
“What if this never ends?”she asks.
“It ends,” I say, and I don’t dress it up.“Eddie’s at the phones.Your brothers are there to support him while they handle the media circus.I’m here with you.And Dorian—” the name tastes like rust “—he’s not weather we endure.He’s a problem we end.”
Her fingers fist in my shirt like she’s hanging on for dear life.
“Promise me,” she breathes.
I press my mouth to the corner of hers—gentle, reverent.“I promise,” I whisper against her skin.“I believe in you.In us.In the way we keep choosing this, even now, when everything else is fucking impossible.”
She exhales like she’s been underwater for too long, and finally surfaced.Her eyes search mine, something wild and aching behind them.“I just ...I need to feel something else.Just for a while.I don’t want to be inside my head anymore.”
“Cleo,” I murmur, brushing her hair back, fingers trembling more than I want to admit.“Are you sure?”
She nods once.Then again, slower.“Make me forget.”
She turns into me, lips parting.The kiss is tentative—barely pressure, just the slip of her breath against mine.But it lands like lightning.I cup her face, thumbs brushingalong her lashes, the fragile remnants of everything she’s holding back.
Then I kiss her again.Deeper.Slower.Until she exhales into my mouth and her shoulders start to release the tension wound tight beneath my palms.
I taste salt.Tea.And something sweeter, something that’s only hers—like soft fruit at the edge of summer.Her lips press harder, searching for something to hold onto, and I give it.I give all of it.
One hand slips into her hair, cradling the base of her skull.The other draws her in by the waist, closer, closer still—like if I just hold her tight enough, the world will stay outside the room.
This isn’t to erase the pain.We both know it won’t go away.But I can give her this.I can give her somewhere safe to land.Somewhere she can finally breathe.
When we part, her forehead rests against mine.Her breath stumbles in the air between us.
It’s not a miracle.But it’s enough.
She blinks up at me, voice raw.“Take this off,” she says, fingers curling under the hem of my shirt.“Please.”
I nod and tug the shirt over my head.Her hands are on me before the fabric hits the floor—palms splayed across my chest like she’s trying to anchor herself.
She moves slowly, reverently, like she’s reading braille in the ink.Fingertips graze over the jagged lines of old scars, the faded lyrics inked just below my collarbone, the tribal band circling my bicep—back when that meant something.Her thumb traces the half-sun tattoo at my ribs, the one I got on a dare the night we were in Tokyo during our second tour.
I feel my breath catch.
She looks at me like she’s trying to memorize it all—the bulk of my shoulders, the lean muscle mapped in years of rage and rhythm.Or maybe she wants to forget every mark.Every reminder of who I was before her.
“Yours too,” I say, voice low.“Let me see you.”
She peels her shirt off in one fluid motion.No hesitation.Just skin and vulnerability and, God, she’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.
I step in again, mouth brushing her collarbone, her jaw, the pulse that flutters under her ear.My hands roam slowly, not to rush—just to learn her all over again.
We undress each other like we’re afraid it might be the last time.Or the first time.Or maybe both.Like we’re building something with the pieces we still have left.
Her breath catches as I kiss down her neck, and I feel her nails bite into my shoulder.She’s silent, but her body says everything—need me, hold me, don’t let me go.
Her skin is warm beneath my mouth—bare, flushed, and trembling.I kiss down her throat, slow as confession, my lips lingering at the hollow where her pulse kicks faster against my tongue.
She tilts her head back, offers me her neck like she’s offering something sacred.I take it.
