His gaze lingers on me, dark and magnetic, like he’s memorising this moment. And then his mouth finds me—first soft, then more certain—his attention focused and unrelenting as he starts to move.
I wrap my legs around his waist, forcing him in deeper, wanting to feel every last inch of him. He picks up his pace, his cock pumping in and out of me, until the pressure builds between us.
“Fuck, Rowan,” he murmurs, a rough warning, like my name alone is enough to undo him.
He fucks me harder, faster, then reaches between us and presses his thumb to my clit as he continues to move. My pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing as an explosive orgasm rips through me. He follows soon after, buried deep and unmoving, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as we ride out our orgasm together.
28
JUSTIN
Rowan has a scar.
It isn’t neat or polite. It’s jagged, unforgiving, cut deep enough to leave a story behind. Most people would glance once and look away, embarrassed by the evidence of something they don’t want to imagine. I don’t. I keep my eyes on it like it might disappear if I don’t.
It’s a record of survival. Of pain that didn’t win.
She wears it the same way she wears everything else the world tried to ruin—quietly, without apology. She’s learned how to live around it, how to make space for it, how to keep moving even when it aches. That alone should be enough.
But I can’t stop looking at it. Not because it’s ugly. Because it isn’t.
It tells me exactly who she is. What she endured. What she outlived. And there is nothing more honest—or more devastatingly beautiful—than proof that she is still here.
“How long will I have to stay here?” she asks.
We’re lying in bed later that afternoon, the light slanting in through the windows, soft and warm. Her back is to my chest.She fits there like she’s always known the shape of me. Like my body made space for hers long before I understood why.
My arm is draped over her waist, loose but unbreakable. My fingers move without thinking, tracing slow paths over her skin—down her spine, along the curve of her ribs, back again. I don’t rush it. I don’t skip anything. I map her the way you do something you’re afraid of losing, committing every inch to memory even though I already know it’s too late for forgetting.
She breathes differently when I touch certain places. I learn those without asking.
Her question lands lightly, but it does damage anyway. Because I hear what she’s really asking. How long before she has to face the world again. How long before I let go.
My hand stills at the small of her back. I press my mouth to her hair, not kissing—just there.
“As long as it takes to make sure you’re safe,” I say.
My grip tightens just enough for her to feel it. Not possessive. Protective. Like a silent line drawn around her that nothing crosses without going through me first. I rest my forehead against the back of her neck and breathe her in, steadying myself like she’s the constant and not the thing I’m guarding.
She relaxes into me, just a fraction, like her body believes me even if her mind doesn’t yet.
I keep tracing her skin. Over and over. Because loving her feels exactly like this—quiet, relentless, and already irreversible.
“Why do you care, Justin?”
The question lands softly, but it carries weight. Nothing she asks is casual.
I don’t answer right away. I keep my hand where it is, steady at her waist, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle like her skin is my canvas. Like letting go would cost me something I’m not ready to name.
“I thought that would be obvious by now.”
She exhales, not convinced. Not challenging me, either. Just tired of answers that don’t quite fit.
“It’s your job. You’re a protector.”
I nod once, even though I know she can’t see me, because that part is true. Because it’s the version of me the world understands. The clean explanation. The one that doesn’t require risk.
“That,” I say slowly, turning the words over, “and other things.”
