I wake up to the frantic beat of my heart as my hands find the other side of the bed empty.
But it doesn’t last. As soon as I jolt upright, I see her.
Cecilia stands on the other side of the room wearing nothing but my black T-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of her knees. Her back is to me, her red hair falling down her spine in a messy cascade as she stands perfectly still in front of the painting.
Her painting.
The one I brought home back when the idea of having her here was just a distant dream.
She studies it like it might speak back to her. And standing there, wrapped in my shirt, framed by morning light, she looks exactly like the thing the canvas has always been trying to become. Human. Unapologetic.
I leave the bed and move to stand behind her.
My arms slip around her waist, drawing her back into me until there is no space left. I bend my head to the curve of herneck and breathe her in. “I thought you’d run,” I confess, my tone rough.
She melts into my hold before tilting her head back to look at me.
“Never again,” she whispers. “I promised, remember? There’s no reason to run when I’m already where I want to be.”
The certainty in her voice hits me harder than any grand declaration ever could. I kiss her, sealing the vow like something sacred between us.
Then her gaze goes back to the painting.
“Why did you bring this one and not yours?”
I tighten my arms around her and rest my chin on the crown of her head. “Because I needed a piece of you here,” I murmur. “And I saw the way you looked at mine... I knew it belonged with you.”
She laughs, seeming satisfied with that answer.
I trail my nose behind her ear, tightening my hold until I draw her fully against me. “Waking up and finding you in my shirt...” I murmur close to her ear, my voice honest in a way I’m not with anyone else. “It’s the kind of wish men don’t say out loud.”
Her body curves into me with a shiver that answers before she ever does.
My mind takes me back to last night when I tugged her into the shower with me, and she followed without question
We shower together.
At first, we only stand under the warm spray, studying one another. Water traces the lines of her body, darkening her hair… and it doesn’t take long before my hands find her, and hers find me.
But we don’t go further. I know she is still sensitive, and truth be told, I’m not a boy anymore; I don’t feel the need to prove my virility or stamina.
What we shared in that bed—the urgency, the way we reached for each other without reservation—was beyond any wish I ever had.
We let our hands talk for us, as I wash her and she washes me with tender touches.
When we finally step out, I leave her in the bathroom drying her hair, a towel draped over her shoulders, while I change the bed. I strip away the used duvet and dress the mattress in fresh linens.
By the time I return from the closet, dressed only in my boxer briefs, she has just stepped out of the bathroom. Cecilia stands there wrapped in a towel, her skin damp, flushed from the shower.
I open my mouth to tell her I left her pajamas folded neatly on the dresser. But I never get the chance.
She walks straight to the armchair, picks up my black T-shirt, and turns to me with it clenched in both hands, her eyes lifting to mine. “Can I?”
My heart stutters, and all I can do is nod.
I stay where I am, watching as she lets the towel slip from her fingers. It pools at her feet, drawing my gaze to the soft curve of her waist, the pale skin now marked with proof that what we did was real.
Then she pulls the shirt over her head and disappears back into the bathroom, returning barefoot and pausing beside the bed.
