We stayed like that for a long time— me still inside her, both of us breathing hard, her leg still hooked around my hip, my mouth pressed to her neck.
Eventually I eased out carefully, disposed of the condom, and pulled her into my arms. I tucked her bad leg over mine so it stayed supported and kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth.
“Not fake,” I whispered.
“Not fake,” she echoed, voice soft and sleepy and completely mine.
I traced the bracelet on her wrist with my thumb, then the ring on my own hand.
“Still scared?” I asked.
She smiled against my chest. “A little. But I’m here.”
I closed my eyes and held her tighter.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re here.”
Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, I finally had everything I’d been too afraid to want.
And I was never letting it go.
She trusted me with her body.
I trusted her with my heart.
And for the first time since I saw her on that beach in a white dress and cowboy boots, wanting another man, I did not feel like I had to fight for a place in her life.
She had flown through snow and handed her heart to me.
“You’re heavy,” she murmured.
“I can move.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
I smiled into her neck.
“Mean women are my weakness.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I know.”
We lay there tangled in the warm dim room, snow falling outside, the house quiet around us except for distant laughter downstairs and one door closing softly somewhere down the hall.
Isa’s hand slid to mine.
To the ring.
Her thumb moved over it.
I lifted my head to look at her.
Her hair was everywhere. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked soft and ruined and brave, and my chest hurt with how much I loved her.
She smiled.
