He pushed his cock into her, slowly and deeply. A single, ragged breath escaped him as he buried himself to the hilt. He was home. The feeling was so overwhelming, so right, tears pricked his eyes. He stilled for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
And when he finally moved inside her, strong and present, he whispered her name like a prayer answered after too many nights in darkness. There was no fear left in him. Only want. Only love. Only both of them rediscovering what survived the desert.
He moved with a slow rhythm, each stroke a declaration, each retreat a promise to return. The pleasure built, a slow burn that ignited into an inferno.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. The world outside the windows ceased to exist. There was only the sound of their breathing, the slick slide of their bodies, the frantic beat of their hearts.
When he reached his victory, one that was slow, hard-earned, and overwhelming, he collapsed against her, arms tight around her waist, face buried in her neck. A shudder racked his body, a release of pain and fear.
He lay exhausted, half on top of her, half beside her, his face pressed to her shoulder.
His pulse still thudded unevenly. Not from exertion, but from the overwhelming realization that he had just loved her like he never thought he’d get the chance to again.
“I thought I was broken,” he whispered into her skin.
Shannon slipped her fingers into his hair. “You’re not.”
He swallowed hard and kissed her collarbone. “You brought me back.”
“Dante,” she murmured, but he heard the tears in her voice.
“No,” he lifted his head enough to look at her, “you need to know. I didn’t fight for oxygen in that desert. I fought for this. For you.”
Her eyes softened. She kissed him, slow and sweet. “Then stay. Heal with me.”
He nodded against her lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheets were tangled,the air faintly humid from breath and skin and closeness.
Dante lay with Shannon tucked against his chest, her head resting just under his collarbone. Her breath was steady, legs drawn against his.
But then—knock-knock. “Hello in there. Do I need to override the lock?”
They both froze.
Shannon blinked, her voice a whisper. “It’s Jamie.”
“Of course it is.” Dante was already pulling back the covers.
Shannon rolled off the bed, put on her tee and tugged up her sweatpants. Dante pulled on his pajama pants, still slow and stiff around the abdomen, where the peritoneal catheter was healing. He moved to the doorway, exhaling once.
“Hold on,” Shannon called toward the door.
Dante buttoned the last button of his loose henley just before opening it. Jamison O’Reilly stood in the hallway—clipboard under his arm, warm tea in hand, as always. His expression waspolite, but one brow arched with quiet amusement as he looked between them.
“I’m not judging,” he said dryly. “But I’m here to check on your ten p.m. PD exchange.”
Dante smirked as he walked over to the portable cycler unit. The machine was compact, resting on a cart Shannon already warmed up. The bags of dialysate hung nearby, ready.
Jamie leaned on the counter, watching with professional distance as Dante moved through the routine—cleaning the port with slow, practiced care. Sanitizing. Priming. Checking clamps. He nodded approvingly. “Nice technique.”
“Feels like defusing a bomb,” Dante muttered.
“Well,” Jamie said, “less chance of vaporization. But the stakes aren’t nothing.”
Once the line was connected, the machine beeped a soft, ready tone. Fluid began to cycle.
Jamie stepped forward and gently tapped the clipboard. “Also came to tell you—your name went active on the transplant list tonight.”
