When he finally pulled out, slow and careful, he bent and pressed a series of soft, reverent kisses to my forehead—a stark contrast to what he’d just done to my mouth. His hand moved through my tangled hair, gentle and unhurried, smoothing the mess he’d made with a touch so careful it brought fresh tears prickling behind my eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Libby,” he murmured against my hair, his voice hoarse, as if I’d wrecked something inside him he didn’t yet know how to name.
Then I saw it.
That sudden, unmistakable recognition—pleasure draining from his expression, replaced by something sharper: awareness, immediately followed by recognition.
Then horror.
“Fuck—Libby—” He pulled back just enough to search my face, his hands still on me but hovering now, uncertain, as if he’d forgotten where they were allowed to land. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think, I swear I didn’t—”
I reached up and wrapped my fingers around his wrist.
“Finn.”
He stopped mid-sentence.
His breath came in shallow pulls, his eyes scanning my face as if reading for a verdict he’d already decided would go against him. He braced himself for regret, for accusation, for me to flinch away.
“It’s okay,” I said, keeping my voice soft and level.
He shook his head before I’d finished. “No, it’s not—I should’ve asked, I should’ve slowed down—”
“Finn.”
Firmer this time, enough to cut through the spiral that had already begun to pull him under.
He went still.
I held his gaze, not letting him look away, not letting him decide what this meant before I did.
“I wanted you like that.”
The words settled between us.
He blinked once, slowly, as if I’d spoken in a language he recognized but couldn’t place—as if he’d spent so long deciding what I needed that he’d forgotten to ask.
“I’ve never—” I swallowed, but kept my eyes steady on his. “I’ve never had that be my choice before.”
I saw his face darken as he considered what had been taken from me in the past. I watched him war with the instinct that was completely Finn—to protect. He warred with himself.
“I knew,” I continued, quieter now, “that if I told you to stop—you would have. Immediately. No questions asked.”
His eyes searched mine again, deeper this time, trying to determine if my reassurance was offered out of obligation or truth. He wouldn’t find any obligation. There was none to find.
“You would have,” I said again, barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence passed. Then another.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough, raw. “I would have.”
I met his gaze, my own unwavering. “I know.”
The silence that followed held no tension. He settled against me, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my skin, as if he needed a constant reminder that I was still here, still choosing this, still choosing him.
“You’re sure?” he asked quietly.
