Not intensity or a distraction, but a connection.
When Laiken shifts against the pillows, one arm wrapped around me, I curl into his side without hesitation. It feels so natural. Easy in a way that’s almost surprising. His chin rests against the top of my head, protective without being possessive, steady without claiming more than I’m ready to give.
He simply holds me.
As sleep pulls me under, one last thought slips through the fog.
If this is what it truly feels like to be held, I don’t know how I’ll survive losing it.
For the time being, I don’t let myself think about what tomorrow will bring.
Instead, I fall asleep held securely in strong arms.
32
Laiken
I wake gradually, suspended in that half-dream state where nothing feels entirely real. Morning sunlight spills through the curtains in pale, muted stripes, warming the room without fully pulling me back to consciousness.
Kia is curled against my side, one leg draped over mine, her head tucked beneath my chin. Her breathing is deep and even. The kind that only comes when someone feels safe enough to completely let go.
I stay exactly where I am, enjoying the warmth of her skin against mine and the faint citrus scent of her shampoo. Her chest rises and falls steadily against my own.
The sight of her in my bed should feel strange.
Instead, it feels right.
The last woman I woke up with was my wife. And even then, it didn’t last long. After Elody was born, Sarah moved out of our bedroom, not wanting to chance another pregnancy. Another responsibility she’d have to take on. Another tie she wasn’t sure she wanted. Intimacy became something we tiptoed around.
Distance crept in quietly. Nights turned into routines, and touch became rare.
I’d always believed having a child would draw two people closer. That love multiplied when it was shared.
For us, it did the opposite.
With Kia, waking up with her in my arms feels natural. Easy. As if my body recognizes something my mind is still trying to understand. Tension doesn’t buzz through my system, and I don’t feel the urge to pull away or overthink the moment. Instead, a quiet certainty settles deep in my bones—an undeniable feeling that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Her hand shifts, fingers brushing over my rib cage in an absent sweep. Even though the touch isn’t deliberate, my body reacts instantly. It’s enough to have me gritting my teeth with how much I want her. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself feel this way.
For the last year, I’ve kept everything locked down tight. No dates. No risks. No women allowed close enough for anyone to twist the narrative and use it against me in a courtroom.
She stirs, her lashes fluttering as she surfaces from sleep. Her gaze meets mine, hazy at first before sharpening. For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickers across her face.
Does she regret last night?
If that turns out to be the case, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Instead, I see the moment she realizes exactly where she is, and the tension in her shoulders loosens.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Morning,” she replies.
Her hand stills, hovering between us. It would be so easy for me to take control, but I don’t. I stay still and let her decide how this morning will unfold. For me, control has never meant taking. It’s about restraint and knowing when to pause and let someone else choose.
She studies my face, as if searching for something.
Permission, maybe.
