Not from this.
Not from him.
He stirred then, his hand sliding up my back, fingers threading into my hair.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
I nodded against him.
“Thinking?”
“Always.”
His chest rumbled with a low sound—not quite a laugh. “About?”
I lifted my head, met his eyes. They were open now, dark and steady, watching me the way he always did—like he could see the thoughts forming before I spoke them.
“About needing you,” I said quietly.
A pause. Then his hand tightened in my hair, just enough to register.
“Needing,” he repeated. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
“Yes.” I swallowed. “I tried to sleep alone last night. Before I texted. It didn’t work.”
He didn’t speak, just waited.
“My body … it knows you’re right for me. Before my head does. It’s like a signal. A barometer. Telling me what’s good, what’s true.”
His gaze softened slightly, the faintest shift at the edges.
“And?” he asked.
“And I want that. I want to need you. Because needing you feels like living. Like the exhaustion is gone.”
He exhaled slowly, his free hand coming up to cup my face.
“That’s dangerous,” he said.
“I know.”
A beat.
“But you want it, anyway.”
“Yes.”
He pulled me closer, mouth finding mine in a kiss that was slow, thorough, like he was sealing something unspoken. I melted into it, my body responding as if to prove my words—heat spreading, pulse quickening, every nerve awake.
When he broke away, his forehead rested against mine.
“I need you, too,” he said quietly. “More than I planned.”
The admission landed soft but deep.
I pulled back enough to look at him. “Since when?”
A pause.
