He took his time. Patient. Thorough. Mapping every inch like he was making sure I was real.
"Garrett—" His name came out broken. "Please?—"
When we finally came together, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like we'd been waiting eight years for this exact moment and now that it was here, there was no reason to rush.
I moved with him, around him, lost in the rhythm we'd never forgotten.
The wave built slowly. Pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but hold on as it crested and broke.
He followed me over, my name on his lips like a prayer.
We lay tangled together afterward. Breathing hard. Hearts pounding in sync.
His hand traced lazy patterns on my hip. My head on his chest, rising and falling with each breath.
"This is from the warehouse fire," I said, tracing the scar on his shoulder. Raised skin, roughly the size of my palm. "Three years ago."
He shifted to look at me. "You read about that?"
"I read everything." I kissed the scar. Soft. Reverent. "I told myself I was just following the news. Professional interest in the FDNY beat."
"And really?"
"Really, I was making sure you were still alive." My voice caught. "Every major fire, every collapse, every firefighter injured, I searched for your name. Held my breath until I knew you weren't on the casualty list."
His arms tightened around me.
"I couldn't be there," I continued. "I didn't think I had the right, after everything. But I could... watch. From a distance.Know that you were still in the world, even if you weren't in mine."
"Sloane—"
"It was pathetic, honestly. Keeping track of someone I'd abandoned." I pressed my palm against his chest. His heartbeat under my hand. "Every article about Engine 295. Every award. Every time someone mentioned your name. I filed it all away. Told myself it didn't mean anything."
"It meant something."
"It meant I never stopped loving you." I looked up at him. "Even when I was too scared to do anything about it."
He didn't let me finish the thought. Just pulled me close, buried his face in my hair, held me like I might disappear if he loosened his grip.
"You can be there now," he said. "If you want."
"I want." I nestled closer. "God, I want."
"Then that's what we'll do." He kissed the top of my head. "You keep track of me up close from now on. Deal?"
"Deal."
No words for a while. Just his heartbeat under my palm and the quiet dark and the feeling of being exactly where I was supposed to be.
Then I propped myself up on my elbow. Looked at him.
Really looked.
Gray-blue eyes soft in the low light. Stubble along his jaw. That serious face relaxed in a way I'd almost forgotten it could be.
He looked younger when he wasn't carrying everything.
He looked like the twenty-six-year-old who'd dropped to one knee on a Brooklyn rooftop and fumbled the words because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
