"I see you," I whispered.
Something broke in his face. Not pain—something deeper. Something that had been locked behind every angry word, every deflection, every time he'd turned away rather than let me see what was underneath.
He kissed me. Hard. And the rhythm of our hands changed—faster now, tighter, his hips pressing into mine with more urgency. The pleasure was building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every stroke.
"I'm close," he said against my mouth. The words rough. Almost pained.
"Me too."
He pressed his forehead harder against mine. Eyes locked on mine.
A few more strokes. His hand tightening on mine. My back arching. The sound of our breathing filling the room—desperate, synchronized, matching.
Then Liam came with a sound that shattered me—a groan that started deep in his chest and ripped upward, his whole body going rigid against mine, his hand clenching, his cock pulsing hot between our bodies.
The sight of him—the sound—the feel of his release spreading warm across my stomach—pulled me over.
I came hard. Harder than I'd thought possible when I was already this exhausted. The orgasm hit in waves, each onestronger than the last, and I was saying his name—"Liam, Liam, fuck"—without any control over what came out of my mouth.
His weight collapsed onto me. Both of us shaking. Both of us gasping. The mess between us warm and real and neither of us moving to clean it up.
For a long time, we just breathed.
His face was in my neck. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest—or maybe that was mine. Couldn't tell anymore. Didn't want to.
Eventually, his breathing slowed. Evened out. His body growing heavier against mine in that way that meant the adrenaline was draining.
"We should clean up," he murmured against my skin.
"In a minute."
"Your sheets."
"I don't care."
A pause. Then: "You got that rag?"
I almost laughed. "Shut up."
We lay there for another moment. Then he shifted, pulled back just enough to look at me. His face was flushed. A half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth that I'd never seen from him during sex—something easy. Unguarded.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"That was—" He stopped. Shook his head slightly, like he couldn't find the word.
"Different," I offered.
"Yeah." His eyes searched mine. "Different."
He meant it the same way I did. Not just better—though it was. Different because something had shifted. Something fundamental. Every time before, we'd come together like a collision—violent and necessary and immediate. Fueled byanger or denial or the desperate need to touch before the window closed.
Tonight wasn't a collision.
Tonight was a choice.
I reached up and touched his face. Thumb tracing along his jaw. He didn't flinch. Didn't make a joke. Just let me touch him.
