Rafe pulls back just enough to breathe. “I’m sweating,” he murmurs.
“I don’t care,” I say.
He smiles—slow, wicked. “You’re wearing your ring.”
“Yeah,” I answer, voice rough. I slipped it on when we were in the car, wanting to feel brave and give him this before we reached this moment. “So are you.”
He glances down at his own hand like he forgot it was there, then looks back up at me. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers.
A warmth blooms in my chest that hurts. “You already said that,” I manage.
“I want to say it again,” he replies. “I want to say it a hundred times.”
The elevator dings, and we separate like we’ve practiced this, stepping apart with a speed that would almost be funny if I wasn’t still burning. The doors open, and we walk down the hallway like two men who are simply sharing a floor.
Rafe unlocks his hotel room. The second we’re inside and the door clicks shut, he turns, and I don’t even think. I shove him back against the door and kiss him again, harder this time, because there’s no one here to stop me.
He makes a sound in his throat that goes straight through me. “Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth. “Ollie.”
“This is what you promised,” I murmur.
His laugh is shaky. “Yeah. It is.”
We stumble toward the bed, shedding layers as we go—not frantic, but inevitable. Like gravity. Like something that’s been pulling at us all night finally gets to snap tight.
It’s hot. It’s desperate. It’s familiar in a way that makes my chest ache even as my body lights up.
Rafe’s hands are everywhere. He keeps kissing me like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to drink me in. My ring presses cool against his skin when I grip him, a grounding point in the middle of all this heat.
“I missed you,” he says into my throat.
“I’m here,” I answer. “I’m right here.”
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and shining. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I swallow. “Always,” I whisper. “I’ll always be yours.”
His expression cracks for a fraction of a second, emotion cutting through desire like lightning. “God,” he breathes. “I love you.”
The words hit me harder than anything else tonight.
“I love you too,” I say, voice rough. “I love you.”
And then he kisses me again, softer and deeper at the same time, like he needs to anchor the words in something physical.
I go with him willingly, letting the heat pull me under, letting the room disappear until it’s just him and the bed and the desperate, familiar rhythm of us finding each other again. It isn’t rushed, not really, but it’s hungry. It’s the kind of hunger that doesn’t come from a single night apart. It comes from weeks of airports and time zones and polite distances. It comes from having to look normal in public when my body has been screaming for him in private.
Rafe touches me like he’s memorizing me all over again. Like he needs to make sure I’m still real. His mouth moves over my skin with reverence and impatience all at once, kisses that turn into softer bites, his breath hot against my throat.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice rough, and when I open my eyes, I find him already watching me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
I drag my fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. He swears under his breath, forehead dropping against mine as if he can’t decide whether he wants to take his time or lose his mind.
“Mine,” he whispers again, like a prayer.
“Always,” I breathe back.
The world narrows to sensation. To the way his hands hold me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. To the way my ring presses cold against his skin when I grip him. To the way the bed shifts beneath us, the sheets twisting, the air thickening with heat and breath and quiet, feral relief.
