“Bad boy, Leo,” I murmur, half a smile tugging at my mouth.
He exhales, shaky, and I feel it everywhere.
“I won’t apologize for wanting you,” I say, firmer now. “Or for still being confused. I’m stronger than I was before. And I get to choose.”
His eyes search mine, not hungry — reverent.
“And right now,” I add, “I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me like it’s not about taking, but aboutmeeting me where I am. Slow. Certain. Like we have nowhere else to be and nothing left to prove.
The fire crackles lower. Snow drifts past the windows. Christmas morning hums quietly outside this room.
And for the first time, loving him doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like stepping forward — together.
I don’t know what tomorrow looks like.
But I know this moment is ours.
And that’s enough.
“So,” he says softly, forehead resting against mine. “Nothing heavy today?”
“Agreed,” I whisper.
The word feels like a promise instead of a rule.
But my chest tightens anyway, because light doesn’t mean empty. It doesn’t mean I haven’t missed him. It doesn’t mean my body hasn’t memorized the heat of his skin, the way his breath catches when I’m close.
“I missed you,” I admit, voice barely there. “For months. Every single night.”
His hands hesitate at my waist, fingers curling just enough to feel the tremor in them—like he’s holding back a flood. Like he’s still trying to be good. Still afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile thing between us.
I cover his wrist, guiding him closer, pressing his palms fully against me. The thin fabric of my sweater does nothing to dull the warmth radiating from him.
“Bad boy, Leo,” I murmur, a teasing edge slipping into my smile.
He exhales, shaky and low, and the sound vibrates straight through me, settling hot and liquid low in my belly.
“I won’t apologize for wanting you,” I say, stronger now, eyes locked on his. “Or for still being confused. I’m not the same girl who walked away. I’m stronger. And I get to choose.”
His gaze darkens—not with hunger, but with something deeper, softer. Reverent. Like he’s seeing me for the first time all over again.
“And right now,” I breathe, “I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
His mouth finds mine, not rushing, not claiming—just meeting me, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second he thought he’d lost. The kiss deepens gradually, a quiet unraveling. His tongue brushes mine, gentle at first, then surer, drawing a soft sound from my throat that makes his grip tighten at my hips.
We move without hurry, shedding layers like old doubts—my sweater, his shirt—until skin meets skin and the air between us feels charged, electric. His hands trace the line of my spine with deliberate care, thumbs brushing the sensitive dip just above my waistband, igniting sparks that spread everywhere. I arch into him, feeling the hard evidence of how much he wants this—wants me—pressed against my thigh.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.
I shake my head, fingers threading through his hair to draw him back. “It’s exactly enough.”
