She smiles.
Actually smiles.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
Like she remembers.
Her fingers slide into my hair, nails dragging down my back, and something dark and possessive rears up inside me.
Mine.
That thought hits hard.
Too hard.
I don’t push it away this time.
I lean into it.
Because if she’s here—if she came back—if she’s looking at me like that again—then I need to know.
Need to see it.
Need to feel it.
Her hands slide over my back, pulling me closer, urging me on, and the need that’s been coiled tight in my chest since she walked back into my life snaps wide open.
There’s no room for doubt here.
No room for questions.
Just us.
Just this.
Just now.
And I take it.
All of it.
Because whatever comes next?
Whatever truth we uncover?
Whatever damage we still have to face?
Right now?
She’s here.
She’s in my arms.
And for the first time in three long fucking years—she’s mine again.
I look down at her, really look this time.
Flushed skin.
