Her breath hitched.
“Please stop me,” I begged. “If you don’t want this—if you don’t—just tell me. Please.”
My hands hovered at her sides, not touching, not daring to. My whole body was tight with restraint, with fear,withwant.
She didn’t pull away.
She didn’t tell me to stop.
Shestayed.
I leaned in slowly, my lips brushed hers first, barely there, testing, asking without words.
She answered by tilting her head.
That was all the permission I needed.
I kissed her again, gently, lingering, as if I was memorising her. Like I was afraid this was a dream, and I’d wake up alone again. Her lips were warm, soft, moving against mine in a way that made my chest ache.
I took a step forward, guiding her with me, my hand settling at her waist as if it belonged there. She followed without hesitation, back meeting the wall softly as I leaned her into it, never breaking the kiss.
She sighed into my mouth, and that sound almost broke me.
My hand slipped lower, along her side, down her thigh, fingers tightening just enough to ask. When I lifted her, she went willingly, legs instinctively wrapping around me for balance, her forehead pressing briefly to mine like she needed a second to breathe too.
I carried her to the couch as if she weighed nothing.
Lowered her down slowly. Reverently.
I stayed over her, bracing my hands on the cushions on either side of her hips, holding myself there, keeping space even though every nerve in my body screamed to close it. Our mouths met again, unhurried, mouths moving together in a way that felt achingly familiar.
Her hand came to rest on my shoulder.
Not gripping. Not pushing.
Just there.
Grounding me.
The kiss deepened before I realised it had.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… heavier. Like my body was finally catching up to everything I’d been holding back. I melted into it without meaning to, my chest pressing closer, my breath stuttering into hers as if I’d forgotten how to breathe anywhere else.
“Tell me,” I murmured against her lips, barely pulling back enough for the words to exist. “Tell me to stop.”
My voice shook. My hands stayed where they were, braced hard into the couch, knuckles white like anchors. If I moved them, I didn’t trust myself to stop moving them.
“Please,” I breathed, forehead brushing hers between kisses. “Aurora… just—tell me. Tell me I don’t deserve this.”
She smiled softly against my mouth, breath warm, voice slipping into the space between us, broken but sure.
“You do,” she whispered.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just enough. Then—
“I—I trust you to not hurt me again.”
