And I wanted to remember it forever—the best sex of my life that I'd asked for and received.
Contrary to what I'd expected, when it was over, he didn't pull out and didn't let go. He was still inside me with his arms wrapped around me tight. He was allowing me this—the comfort of the post sex euphoria and I clung to it without hesitation.
My head dropped into the crook of his shoulder and I breathed through the comedown. My thoughts were a mess and my brain didn't seem to understand what had just happened.
And suddenly I wanted to tell him I loved him. I wanted to say it out loud. But I didn't.
Instead, I listened to his heartbeat, steady and solid, and prayed he wouldn't disappear on me when this job ended.
I woke up with the sheets twisted into a knot at my waist.
For a moment, I thought I'd dreamed everything—the kiss, the sex, the way I'd come apart in his arms. But as I turned my head on the pillow and saw his silhouette, I realized it was real.
Seven was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, elbows on his knees. The muscles in his back cut shadowed lines under the skin. His dark hair was mussed. He was staring at the nightstand where the yellow envelope sat. He must have brought it inside the bedroom while I was asleep.
I was happy and conflicted and didn't know if he wanted company or not. For a while, I resorted to simply watching him. He didn't move for a long time and I took it as a cue to let him know I was awake.
I stretched, then sat up behind him and gingerly wrapped my arms around his torso. I wasn't certain if I was allowed this kind of intimacy now that the sex was over. Maybe for him it was a one-time thing. Maybe he wasn't involved emotionally. And I didn't ask him to. I couldn't. For one night, I wanted to be worshipped and he'd given me that.
But he didn't protest when I touched him.
I dared to rest my chin between his shoulder blades. "You didn't sleep."
"I did. A little," he replied, brushing his palm over my hands locked at his stomach. "I'm just afraid." He jerked his chin at the envelope.
My pulse spiked at the contact. "Of what? Of finding out something you won't like?"
"Of being disappointed."
"You want me to look?" I asked.
He was silent for a long time. Then he nodded, barely.
I detached myself from his body and reached over to the nightstand to pick up the envelope and turn on the lamp. My hands were steady, even though my heart wasn't.
I covered myself with the sheet a little because reading naked felt strange. Then I sat with my back against the headboard and looked inside.
I waited for him to say something.
He didn't.
I slid the contents into my lap. There were several sheets of paper. Thefirst one was official-looking—a birth certificate, I realized, printed in pale blue with a little state emblem in the corner.
I held it up to the light streaming through the window and from the lamp.
"Your name is Milo Mercer," I read. "You were born in San Bernardino, California." There was a year of birth, and I did the math. "You're twenty-seven years old. Your birthday is February twenty-second." I paused and looked at him. "We're only a year apart."
He didn't speak, but I saw the way his body tensed beside me, the way his muscles bunched up under his skin and the way his jaw clenched.
The next few pages were all printouts of various scans. Case notes, social services. "Both of your parents are…" I paused to swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. "…deceased."
He didn't react.
"Do you want me to keep reading?" I asked.
He tipped his chin.
"There's a lot of bad here, Seven," I supplied. My eyes had already jumped ahead and I felt my stomach clench from what I saw.
