He goes completely still, hands frozen on my hips. His eyes search mine like he's afraid to believe it.
It's the first time I've said it out loud. The first time I've let myself.
"I should have said it five years ago," I whisper, voice breaking. "I should have said it instead of running. I should have—"
"Say it again." His voice is wrecked.
"I love you, Eli."
His eyes close. When they open again, they're wet.
His hands cup my face. "Again."
"I love you."
He presses his forehead to mine, breathing unsteady, and for a moment neither of us moves. Just standing there in the moonlight with five years of unsaid things finally out in the open.
"I've loved you since we were kids," he says quietly. "Even when I was trying not to. Even when it hurt." His thumbs brush my cheekbones. "I drove to Denver and watched you walk out of your building and told myself you were happy. That you'd made the right call. I got back in my truck and spent five years trying to believe that." His voice cracks. "You were never supposed to come back. And you did. And you're still here, standing in frontof me scared half to death, and you stayed anyway." He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes raw and certain. "That's everything, Hazel. That's the whole thing."
I can't speak. My throat is too tight. I pull him back to me instead.
He kisses me like I'm something precious. Something he's afraid might disappear. His hands map my body like he's relearning every curve, every place that makes me shiver.
His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. Taking his time. But I can feel the urgency underneath. The restraint he's barely holding onto.
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him back up to me. "Tell me what you need."
"You." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just you."
The reverence tips into fire.
His mouth crashes into mine, harder this time. Claiming. His hands grip my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollow just above my hip bones. I arch against him, needing more, needing everything.
He walks me backward until my knees hit the bed and we go down together, a tangle of hands and breath and five years of wanting finally given permission. When he pulls back to look at me — really look, chest heaving, eyes dark — something in his expression makes me go still.
He's not rushing. Not anymore.
He takes his time. One hand smoothing up my side. His mouth finding mine again, slower now. Like he's reminding both of us that we have time. That I'm not going anywhere.
When he finally enters me, we both stop.
Foreheads pressed together. Breathing the same air. The sensation is overwhelming — too much and not enough all at once.
"Mine," he says, voice rough.
"Yours." I move against him, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours."
He starts to move and I meet him stroke for stroke. The rhythm builds slow at first, deliberate, like he's savoring every second. But it doesn't stay slow.
His hands grip tighter. My nails drag down his back. His mouth finds my neck, my shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
"Don't stop," I gasp.
He shifts his weight, catching both my wrists in one hand and pinning them above my head. His other hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up.
"Look at me."
I open my eyes. Meet his. The intensity there steals my breath.
