And she’s tossing and turning next to me, muttering in her sleep. The sheets rustle with each movement, her breath coming in uneven gasps that make my chest tighten with concern.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen. Three-thirty a.m. And there’s another text from the number that messaged me when we were at the hospital. The notification sits there like a coiled snake, and my stomach drops as I open it.
This time it says:“It would be a shame if you fucked things up with Devin again, wouldn’t it?”
My jaw clenches, anger flaring hot in my chest.“Who is this?”I respond, my thumb jabbing at the letters harder than necessary. Now that they’ve brought Devin into this, I’m going to find out who is sending these messages. The screen goes dark after I hit send, leaving me staring at my own shadowed reflection.
But first, I need to figure out how I can help her in this moment. I reach a hand out but stop short of touching her, my fingers hovering inches from her shoulder. The moonlight catches on her hair, tangled and spread across the pillow like dark silk. Since when does she have nightmares? The Devin I knew years ago slept like the dead, peaceful and still. And is waking her the right thing to do?
Or is she awake and struggling because of the POTS or chronic fatigue syndrome? My mind races through everything I’ve researched since learning about her conditions. Hours spent on medical websites, forums, trying to understand what she faces every day. I’ve taken some time to research the POTS, but I still feel like I’m staring into a black hole. They’re both such complex conditions and can exacerbate other health problems. The way symptoms can shift and change, appear and disappear without warning. It’s plausible that she could be having some kind of new health issue.
“Devin,” I hiss, keeping my voice low but urgent.
She rolls over, right into my hand, her hair tangled around her face. The contact sends electricity through my palm, up my arm, straight to my heart.
“Devin,” I whisper, softer this time.
But her eyes are already open. My vision is adjusting, and I can make out her face in the dark—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the way her eyes search mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Without saying anything, she scootsover to me, closing the distance between us with a purposeful movement that speaks louder than words. It’s the most natural law in the universe, our lips meeting.
The kiss is searing, waking every nerve of my body when I didn’t even know they were sleeping. Her mouth moves against mine with a desperate hunger that mirrors my own, years of longing poured into this single moment. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush to my chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against mine. Each curve, each dip fits perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place. To say we were made for each other would be an understatement. We are each other—two parts of one whole.
Her hands find my hair, clutching at the roots with an urgency that makes me groan. Her fingers work their way over my shoulders, tracing the muscles there before sliding down my chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I groan into her mouth, her touch making me shake from the inside out, years of muscle memory flooding back. Every place she touches remembers her, celebrates her return. She dips one hand lower, her fingers teasing at the waistband of my boxers.
The sensation is overwhelming—her soft hand leaving streaks of fire on my skin, the heat of her body pressed against mine, the sweet taste of her mouth. It’s everything I need and want, what I’ve even fantasized about in our years apart, lonely nights when her memory was all I had. My body screams for more, demanding I take what’s being offered so freely.
And yet...
Somehow, a part of me remains connected to logic. A voice in the back of my mind, quiet but insistent, reminding me of what’s at stake here. This isn’t just about tonight. This is about forever.
Breaking the kiss takes every ounce of willpower I possess. My lips mourn the loss of hers immediately. I gently grasp herwrist and place it back on my chest, over my racing heart. “Wait. We need to go slower.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, and even in the darkness I can see the flash of hurt in her eyes. I hurry to explain further, needing her to understand this isn’t rejection—it’s the opposite.
“You ran away the other day?—”
“I shouldn’t have,” she interrupts, her voice thick with emotion. “I was scared, but I’m not now. I know this is right. We’re right.”
The conviction in her voice nearly breaks my resolve. I couldn’t agree with her more, and my body and heart are screaming at me to take action, to stop overthinking and just feel. But I’ve learned too much at this point, paid too high a price for not learning these lessons the first time around. I understand how giving into what we want right now could upend everything in the long run.
“I want this to work out,” I tell her, my voice rough with the effort of holding back. “And if it is going to, we need to go slow. We can’t jump into sex.”
“It was always the best thing we had,” she says, and there’s a wistfulness in her voice that cuts deep.
“Exactly,” I chuckle, though it’s pained, my body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire. “We used it as a distraction. Whenever we had a problem, we just connected physically, like that would make everything else go away. It never worked.”
She gets quiet, and I can feel her processing my words, remembering all those times we chose passion over conversation, chose the temporary fix over the permanent solution. The silence stretches between us, heavy with shared memories—arguments that ended in bed instead of resolution, hurt feelings buried under physical pleasure only to resurface later, deeper and more painful than before.
“I don’t want to mess it up this time,” she whispers, her voice so small it breaks my heart.
I clutch her tighter, as if I can hold us together through sheer will. “God, I don’t want to either. That’s why I think we need to be mindful and really work through anything that comes up. Talk about it.”
“And not simply fuck it away?” There’s a smile in her voice now, a lightness that eases the tension in my chest.
I groan, all too aware that her ass is only inches below my fingers, the thin fabric of her sleep shorts the only barrier between my hands and her skin. My body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re taking things slow, still aching for her.
“I agree,” she says, sobering up. The playfulness fades, replaced by something deeper, more meaningful. “When we were together, there were so many things I should have said.”
“And so many things I shouldn’t have said,” I sigh, remembering all the careless words, the criticism disguised as help, the way I tried to mold her instead of accepting her.
