This isn’t about sneaking.
This is about choosing each other.
Over and over.
His hands slide down my hips, gripping firmly as he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He carries me toward the couch, but we don’t make it. We barely make it to the wall before he presses me back against it again, kissing down my neck.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits against my skin.
“You didn’t,” I whisper, tilting my head to give him more access. “You never will.”
His breath catches at that.
His hands roam, exploring like he’s memorizing me all over again. When I tug his shirt over his head, he watches me with heat in his eyes like I’m the only thing in the world that exists.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice low.
“Show me,” I reply.
The air shifts.
Slower now.
More deliberate.
He walks us toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact, not breaking the connection. There’s no rush to tear at clothing this time. Just hands sliding over skin, lips following the paths they’ve traced a hundred times before.
Every touch feels amplified.
Because we almost lost this.
When we finally reach the bed, he lowers me onto it gently like I’m something precious.
“You’re everything,” he says quietly.
My heart swells.
“I love you, Wilder.”
His mouth captures mine again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and skin and devotion. We move together with familiarity now, not just passion, but trust. His hands guide, but never control. My fingers grip, but never cling.
It’s intense.
It’s consuming.
It’s ours.
He murmurs my name like it’s sacred. Not “Doc.” Not teasing. Not playful.
Amelia.
And when we finally come undone together, it feels less like a collision and more like a promise.
Afterward, I lie curled against him, his chest rising steadily beneath my cheek. His fingers lazily trace circles on my back, and the quiet between us is peaceful.
No secrets.
No fear.
