His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, demanding. I moan against him and feel his whole body shudder in response.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and he swallows my gasp, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
Good. I want bruises. I want marks. I want physical proof that this is real, that he's real, that I'm not dreaming in some padded cell while doctors discuss my "treatment plan."
"Sergio." His name tears out of me when he releases my mouth to kiss down my jaw, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes my knees dissolve.
"Still want to leave?" He scrapes his teeth across my pulse point.
"No." The word comes out strangled.
"Still think you're not worth it?" He sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
"No."
"Still convinced you're making things worse?" His hand slides under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and I arch into the contact like I'm touch-starved.
I am touch-starved. Three weeks of wanting and waiting and wondering, and now his hands are finally on me and I can't think straight.
"No." My fingers scrabble at his shoulders, pulling him closer. "No, I'm not, please, Sergio, I need..."
"I know what you need." He lifts his head and meets my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the grey almost swallowed by black. "But not like this. Not when you're upset. Not when you might regret it tomorrow."
"I won't regret it."
"You might." He takes a breath, visibly steadying himself, and steps back. The cold rushes in to fill the space where hiswarmth used to be. "We need to talk first. All of us. About what this means. About how it works."
"I know how it works." I reach for him, and he catches my wrists, holding them gently but firmly.
"You know what you want right now. This second. In this room." His voice is strained, like the words are costing him something. "I need you to know you'll still want it tomorrow. And the day after. And every day for the rest of your life."
I stop struggling.
He's right. I hate that he's right. But this is Sergio, who never wastes words, who doesn't make decisions lightly, who's been waiting years because he wanted to do things properly.
"Okay." I let out a shaky breath. "Okay. We talk first."
Relief flickers across his face. He releases my wrists and takes my hands instead, threading our fingers together.
"Unpack your suitcase." He brings my knuckles to his lips. "Put your clothes back. Rebuild your nest. Steal more of our things if you need to."
"You don't mind?"
"I mind that you felt like you had to leave." He presses another kiss to my knuckles. "I don't mind anything that makes you feel like you belong here. Because you do. This is your home now. Whether you believe it yet or not."
Home.
The word settles into my chest, warm and heavy.
"I'm still scared," I admit.
"Fear is fine. Fear means you care." He tugs me toward the bed, toward the suitcase that needs unpacking, toward the nest that needs rebuilding. "Running is what we're eliminating."
"No more running?"
"No more running." He picks up the suitcase and sets it on the mattress. "Now. Which drawer does this go in?"
I look at the clothes spilling out of the bag. At the nest of blankets and hoodies waiting to be reassembled. At the man standing in my room, prepared to help me unpack like it's the most natural thing in the world.
