The sensation is overwhelming—heat and pressure and a connection so intense it steals my breath.
Her forehead falls against mine, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Okay?" I manage.
"More than okay." She starts to move, slow and deliberate, and the world narrows to this—to her, to us, to the impossible rightness of this moment.
I let her set the rhythm, let her take what she needs.
My hands grip her hips, guiding but not controlling, and I watch her face as pleasure builds behind her eyes.
She's beautiful like this—lost in sensation, free from fear, wholly and completely present.
"Levi." My name falls from her lips like a prayer. "God, Levi?—"
"I've got you." I pull her closer, one hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. "Let go. I've got you."
She does.
I feel it when she breaks—the way her body clenches around me, the cry that tears from her throat, the shuddering release that seems to go on forever.
I follow her over the edge seconds later, burying my face in her neck, her name a groan against her skin.
Afterward, we stay tangled together, neither of us willing to move.
Her head rests on my shoulder, her breath warm against my collarbone.
Above us, the stars wheel slowly through the sky.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For believing in me." She lifts her head, meeting my eyes. "For giving me a reason to try."
I brush a kiss against her forehead. "You don't need to thank me for that."
"I do, though. Because no one else ever has."
I hold her tighter, wishing I could protect her from everything—from Varro, from the club's doubts, from the ghosts that still haunt her. But I can't. All I can do is be here. Be present. Be whatever she needs me to be.
"We should go inside," I say eventually. "It's cold."
"In a minute." She snuggles closer, her arms tightening around me. "Just... let me have this for a little longer."
I don't argue.
We stay on the roof until the cold finally drives us inside, wrapped in each other, the city glittering below us like a promise.
CHAPTER 9
Ripley
I dream of Cain.
He's standing in the doorway of our old apartment, backlit by the hallway light, his face in shadow.
I can't see his expression, but I don't need to.
