I slide into her slowly, watching her face. Her eyes flutter closed. Her mouth opens on a silent gasp. When I'm fully seated, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss.
"Move," she demands against my mouth.
So I do. Slow at first, letting her adjust, then harder when she digs her nails into my shoulders and demands more. The counter creaks. A mug crashes to the floor. We don’t care.
I lose myself in the rhythm, in the feel of her around me, the sounds she makes, the way she says my name like a prayer and a curse.
"Touch me," she gasps.
I slide my hand between us, finding the place that makes her whole body tense. She's slick and hot and perfect. I work her with steady pressure while keeping the pace of my thrusts deep and deliberate.
"Don't stop. Don't?—"
She comes apart in my arms, clenching around me, and I follow seconds later. The pleasure slams through me, whiting out everything but her name on my lips.
We stay tangled together while our breathing evens out. Her head rests on my shoulder. My arms cradle her close.
"The table survived," she says eventually.
I laugh. "Barely."
"Worth it."
"Absolutely worth it."
She pulls back enough to look at me. Her hair is a disaster. Her lips are swollen. She's never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," she says. Matter of fact. Sure.
My chest does that stupid tight warm thing again.
"I love you too."
She smiles and kisses me, slow and sweet. The kitten meows from its nest of napkins, demanding attention.
"Moment ruiner," Maris accuses.
The kitten chirps, unbothered.
We clean up, eventually. Get dressed. Bring the kitten home to Maris's tiny apartment above the café. Fall into bed together with the kitten wedged between us like a tiny chaperone.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I fall asleep not bracing for loss.
Just grateful for what I found.
One month later,the café has a line out the door most mornings.
The viral kitten video got a second wind after the developer story broke. National news picked it up. Someone wrote an article about small-town resistance. Another person started a crowdfunding campaign for rowhouse restoration that exceeded its goal in forty-eight hours.
Maris hired two part-time staff. Expanded the menu. Started selling branded merchandise with the kitten's face on it.
The kitten, for its part, accepts celebrity with regal indifference.
I run deliveries now. Officially. "Orc-Strength Deliveries" painted on the side of a van that barely fits me. Businesses book me weeks in advance. Turns out people love the novelty of an ex-gladiator gently transporting their fragile goods.
The rowhouse is mine. Actually mine. Maris helped me furnish it. Most of the furniture is human-sized, which means I have to fold myself into ridiculous shapes. It's home.
She stays over most nights. Or I stay at hers. We haven't officially moved in together, but her toothbrush lives in my bathroom and half my clothes are in her closet.
