"Sometimes." He watches me take a sip. "Tonight? No. He was going to hurt you. I stopped him. That's all there is to it."
I drink slowly, letting the sweetness ground me. He doesn't rush me, just stands there, steady and patient.
"What time is it?" I ask.
He checks his phone and I see the date. It takes me a second. Then I laugh—a sharp, startled sound that surprises both of us.
"Happy Valentine's Day," I say.
He stares at me for a beat. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Happy Valentine's Day."
"We should do something romantic." I gesture at the empty house and the property that extends all the way around. "Really set the mood."
"You're handling this with humor. That's one way to cope."
"Would you prefer I have a breakdown?"
"I'd prefer you do whatever you need to do." He leans against the counter, watching me. "If that's laughing, laugh. If that's crying, cry. If that's drinking whiskey at midnight and making dark jokes, I'm here for that too."
I take a sip of the whiskey. It burns going down, but it's a good burn.
"I don't want to cry," I say. "I don't want to fall apart. I just want..."
"What?"
I set down the glass. Stand up. Cross the kitchen until I'm right in front of him.
"I want you to take me to bed," I say. "I want you to remind me that I'm alive. That we're both alive. That he didn't win."
His eyes darken and a devious smile appears.
"I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break." I take his hand, press it flat against my chest so he can feel my heartbeat. "I need you, Cesar. Please."
He's still for a long moment. Then he sets down his whiskey and takes my hand and walks me to the bedroom.
The second we're through the door, he's on me.
He pushes me back against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck, his hands shoving up the shirt I'm wearing until it's over my head and gone. I'm in nothing but underwear and he's still fully dressed and something about that imbalance makes me wetter than it should.
He kisses me hard, his tongue in my mouth, his thigh shoving between my legs. I grind against him shamelessly, chasing friction, chasing anything to replace the hollow numbness with something real.
I'm panting, clawing at his shirt. "I need to feel you. Please."
He steps back just long enough to strip. Shirt, pants, everything. And then he's lifting me, and I'm wrapping my legs around him, and he's walking us to the bed.
He doesn't lay me down gently. He drops me onto the mattress and follows me down, covering my body with his, and the weight of him—solid, warm, alive—makes something crack open in my chest.
"You're shaking," he says.
"I know."
"We can stop."
"If you stop I'll kill you.”
He chuckles and then he's kissing down my body. Not slow and worshipful like before. Desperate. Like he needs to taste every inch of me to prove I'm still here.
