Each place he touches feels new. Clean. Untainted. The other hands—the ones from the dark—don’t follow me here.
He doesn’t know everything I endured.
But in this moment, he doesn’t need to.
All I know is that the fear is quiet for the first time in days, replaced by warmth and the steady reality of him.
And for now—That’s enough.
His mouth lingers at my throat, warm and unhurried, like he’s mapping me instead of taking. Every kiss is deliberate, every pause a question he waits for me to answer with my breath, my hands, the way I lean into him instead of away.
“You’re here,” he murmurs, more to himself than me. “You’re with me.”
“I know,” I whisper, even though my body is still buzzing, still humming with the aftermath of fear turned into want. “Don’t stop.”
His hands slide down my sides, thumbs brushing bare skin, and I feel the shift in him—the restraint thinning, the control he’s fought so hard to keep fraying at the edges. He presseshis forehead to mine, breathing me in like he needs to steady himself before he breaks.
“This doesn’t fix everything,” he says quietly. “I won’t pretend it does.”
“I don’t need it to,” I answer, my voice firmer than I feel. “I just need this.”
That’s what does it.
The sound he makes then is low, almost a growl, and his mouth finds mine again with a hunger that steals my breath. It’s not careful anymore, but it’s stillhim—still grounding, still present. He pulls me closer, like distance is the real enemy here, like if he lets go I might disappear again.
My fingers trace his spine, memorizing the heat, the strength, the way he shudders when I whisper his name like it means something dangerous. When he presses me back into the mattress, it doesn’t feel like being trapped.
It feels like being held.
“Delilah,” he says again, slower this time, like a promise. “I’ve got you.”
He stays there for a long moment, forehead pressed to mine, breathing me in like he’s memorizing proof that I’m real. That I’m here. That I didn’t disappear when he blinked.
I feel him everywhere—not just the solid warmth of his body anchoring me to the mattress, but the restraint humming beneath his skin. The way he’s holding back on purpose.
It does something dangerous to me.
“I need you to tell me,” he says quietly. “If anything feels wrong. Even a little.”
I nod again, because words still feel like they might shatter. My hands slide up his arms instead, feeling the tension there, the strength he’s keeping leashed. My fingers curl at his shoulders, grounding myself in the present—this body, this room, this moment.
“Jon,” I breathe. “I’m not breaking.”
Something shifts in his expression then. Not relief—something deeper. Pride, maybe. Or trust. He brushes his thumb under my eye, slow and reverent, like he’s checking for cracks.
“I know,” he says. “I just don’t ever want to be the reason you do.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. Slower. Like he’s letting me set the pace without saying it out loud. His mouth moves against mine with intention, not urgency, and the tension in my chest loosens with every second that passes without pain, without fear.
His hand slides down my side, pauses—asks—and when I lean into it, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“That okay?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
The word is steady. Real.
He kisses my temple. My cheek. The corner of my mouth. Each touch is deliberate, grounding, like he’s reminding my body that this is mine again. That I get to choose what happens next.
