He kissed them away.
Then he moved inside me—slow, deep, deliberate. Each thrust measured, like he was proving something with his body that words couldn’t carry.
I wrapped around him, legs, arms, heart.
We moved together in the dark, no words, just breath and skin and the quiet rhythm of two people choosing each other in the middle of a storm.
Afterward he held me against his chest, one hand in my hair, the other resting over my heart.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Sleep came then—slow, heavy, inevitable.
I woke once in the night, his arm still around me, his breathing even.
For the first time in hours, the silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt like space.
Space to breathe.
Space to decide.
Space to fall.
27
Morning came in fragments.
The first was light—thin and gray, slipping through the half-closed blinds like an uninvited guest. Then sound: the distant hum of traffic on the harbor road, a gull crying somewhere over the water. Then sensation: warmth at my back, an arm draped heavy across my waist, breath steady against my neck.
Cassian.
I didn’t move at first. Didn’t want to. The weight of him grounded me in a way the empty bed hadn’t the night before. My body registered it before my mind did—the slow uncoiling of tension in my muscles, the way my pulse settled from frantic to even, the quiet hum that started low in my belly and spread outward.
I shifted slightly, testing it. His arm tightened reflexively, pulling me closer without waking him. That small movement sent a ripple through me—not desire, not exactly, but something deeper. A recognition. Like my skin knew his touch was right before I could argue it away.
How had I ever slept without this? How had I convinced myself I could?
The thought came unbidden, and once it arrived, it wouldn’t leave. I lay there, eyes open now, staring at the sliver of harbor visible through the blinds. The water was flat this morning, mirror-still, reflecting the overcast sky like it was trying to hide its own depths.
My body felt like that water—calm on the surface, but underneath, everything shifted with his presence. The ache in my chest from last night’s spiral had eased, replaced by a quiet certainty that scared me as much as it soothed. I needed him here. Not just wanted. Needed. Like air after holding my breath too long. Like the first sip of water after a long run. My skin prickled where it touched his, alive in a way it hadn’t been alone.
I turned slowly in his arms, careful not to wake him yet. His face was soft in sleep, the lines of control relaxed. I traced a finger along his jaw, feeling the stubble, the warmth. My body responded immediately—a flush of heat, a pull low and insistent.
This was what I’d asked for in that letter. Not just a man. A need. Something that bypassed reason and went straight to the bone.
How could I walk away from that? From him?
The thought made my breath catch. I imagined it—issuing the statement, watching him nod once and step back, the door closing behind him for the last time. The void that would follow. Nights like last night, but without the text, without the doorbell, without his weight anchoring me to the bed. My body rebelled at the idea, a sharp twist in my gut, a restlessness in my limbs. It knew better than my mind did. It always had.
This wasn’t addiction. Or if it was, it was the kind that felt like truth. My body as barometer, measuring what was right, what was good, what fed the parts of me I’d starved for years. Exhaustion from being good—that’s what I’d written. And he’danswered in a way that made goodness feel small, limiting, a cage I’d built myself.
I pressed my forehead to his chest, inhaling him. Woodsmoke and salt, even here in the city. My heart steadied against his.
I couldn’t walk away.
