“Because we don’t have to…”
“I want to,” I admit.
And the second the words leave my mouth, something settles between us completely.
No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just us.
His arm moves around my waist more firmly then, pulling me closer. It’s impossible not to feel how carefully he’s still protecting his shoulder even while he’s holding me. The awareness of that—of how much he’s still healing and still choosing to be here with me anyway- makes everything feel even more real.
“You’re supposed to be recovering,” I murmur against his collarbone.
“I am recovering,” he says softly.
“This doesn’t count as recovery.”
“It counts,” he replies.
I laugh into his shoulder.
“You’re ridiculous.”
This time, he doesn’t answer. He kisses me. The second kiss is deeper. Slower.
Less careful now that neither of us is pretending this isn’t happening anymore.
My hands slide into his hair without thinking about it. His fingers tighten at my waist like he’s been waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed. Suddenly, the distance between us disappears completely in a way that makes the entire room feel smaller than it did a minute ago.
He keeps pausing long enough to look at me between kisses, like he’s checking that I’m still there with him every step of the way, like this matters as much to him as it does to me.
“Lisa,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“You can still stop me.”
“I’m not going to,” I answer.
And I’m not.
Not even a little.
By the time we reach the edge of the bed, I don’t even remember crossing the room.
I only remember the warmth of his hands and the way he keeps saying my name like it’s something important instead of something ordinary, like being here with me means more to him than just tonight.
He moves slowly.
Carefully.
Not because he’s unsure. Because he’s paying attention. To me. To every reaction. To every breath.
And that gentleness makes something inside my chest ache in the best possible way.
“You ok?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Tell me if anything feels too fast.”
