She didn't answer. Just pressed her face into my shoulder and cried—not the happy tears of yesterday, but the grief ones. The mourning ones.
The ones that came from burying a dream you'd barely allowed yourself to have.
I held her through all of it. Memorized the weight of her in my arms. The smell of her hair. The way her fingers gripped my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear.
Then, she kissed me.
Soft. Tentative. The particular pressure of someone seeking comfort rather than passion—her lips against mine, tasting of salt from the tears still drying on her cheeks. I held still. Let her come to me. Let her set the pace of whatever she needed.
Comfort was what I expected.
But something shifted.
The kiss deepened. Her hands found my jaw, my neck, the collar of my shirt. Not demanding—not the way she got when I'd wound her up, when she was desperate and begging. This was different. Quieter. A need that came from somewhere deeper than arousal.
She needed to feel connected.
She needed to feel held.
I understood. God, I understood. Because watching her retreat behind that wall, watching her fold her dreams away like damaged origami—it had done something to me too. Something that demanded contact. Demanded proof that we were still here, still us, still whatever this thing was we'd built together.
"Come here, baby girl," I murmured against her mouth.
I rose from the couch. Pulled her with me. Ghost watched us go with knowing eyes, settling into the warm spot we'd left behind.
The bedroom was dim. Late evening light filtering through curtains, turning everything soft and shadowed. I guided her to the bed but didn't push her down. Instead, I turned her to face me.
And began to undress her.
Slowly. So slowly. The sweater first—lifting it over her head with the same care I'd used this morning, but different now.Not choosing what she'd wear. Memorizing what she felt like beneath my hands.
Her skin was warm. Flushed from crying, from the kiss, from whatever was building between us. I traced the line of her collarbone. The curve of her shoulder. The particular softness where her neck met her jaw.
The collar sat dark against her throat. I didn't remove it. Couldn't—it felt wrong somehow, like stripping away something essential. Let it stay. A constant through whatever came next.
Her bra came next. I unhooked it slowly, watching the straps slide down her arms, watching her breath catch as the fabric fell away. She was beautiful. I'd known that from the first moment I'd seen her—really seen her, not just her photographs but her, in person, all awkward anxiety and fierce intelligence.
But this was different.
This was her trusting me when she'd just been betrayed by hope itself.
I kissed her breast. Soft. Reverent. Felt her shiver under my mouth.
"Daddy."
"I've got you."
The words came out automatically. The promise I'd been making since that first day in my apartment, when she'd collapsed on my floor and I'd held her through the panic.
I've got you.
I stripped her leggings. Her underwear. Left her bare except for the collar, standing in the dim light of my bedroom like something sacred. Something I didn't deserve but had somehow been trusted to protect.
She reached for me then. Pulled at my shirt with hands that trembled slightly. I let her undress me—let her set whatever pace she needed, let her fingers fumble with buttons while I watched her face.
When we were both bare, I lowered her to the bed.
Covered her body with mine. Not crushing—never crushing—but present. Solid. The weight of me against her, skin to skin, every inch of contact an anchor.
