Page 44 of The Final Cut

No words. I do not have any to give him.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine drops to his.

The night comes back in pieces. Steam. Tile. His hands. His body behind mine. His voice telling me that I am furious and untrained, not fragile.

His thigh shifts between mine. My pulse answers.

Ever watches my face as he slides one hand down my hip and hitches my leg over his. I move with him, helping, opening. His palm skims the outside of my thigh, then grips behind my knee. His eyes stay on mine, dark and heavy with the quiet question he does not need to speak.

I answer by rolling my hips into him.

His breath leaves on a low sound as his fingers touch me, find me wet and waiting.

He utters a quiet curse under his breath when I kiss the side of his neck and make his hand fumble. Then he’s warm and solid, drawing me closer until there is no space between us.

He pushes into me slowly.

My mouth opens against his throat.

He goes still when he is fully inside, forehead pressing to mine, breath caught between us. The stretch is tender after last night, deep enough to make my fingers curl into his shoulder. The ache is good. Grounding. Proof I am inside my body and my body still belongs to me.

Ever moves.

Slow.

No rush, no sharp edges. His hand braces my thigh high on his hip while the other slides beneath my neck, cradling the back of my head. His mouth brushes mine without taking over. I feel each thrust in my ribs, my spine, the places grief has been sitting too heavily.

I touch his face, and he turns his mouth into my palm. That small thing nearly undoes me.

The sex from last night was fire and fear and a door kicked open. This is different. This is morning light barely touching the room. This is his body wrapped around mine like a vow he knows better than to say out loud. This is me letting him be close enough to hurt me and finding no desire to pull away.

My eyes burn.

Ever sees. He always sees.

He kisses me then, swallowing whatever sound I might have made, and his rhythm deepens. I cling to him, leg locked around his hip, breath breaking into his mouth. The pleasure builds slowly, then all at once, a low pull tightening until my whole body shakes.

He slides a hand between us.

I break quietly.

He follows with his face buried against my neck, body going rigid around mine, breath hot and rough against my skin.

Afterward, we stay tangled together until the room settles back into shape. Neither of us speak. Words would make me think too hard.

Eventually, Ever presses a kiss to my shoulder and gets out of bed. The air cools around me when he leaves. I watch him dress, because I have eyes and because the world is awful enough without denying myself little pleasures. He notices. His mouth moves, barely.

“Breakfast,” he says.

That one word feels like him. Practical. Gruff. A whole emotional landscape smashed flat into a noun.

I sit up and reach for the clothes someone packed for me. Black leggings. Soft long-sleeved shirt. Clean socks. My own bra, thank God. I dress while he goes to the bathroom, then braid my hair in front of the mirror with fingers that still feel half-asleep. The rubber bands are back on my wrist. I snap one once, more habit than need.

Homer wakes when I pick up his harness.

He turns his head away from me and closes his eyes.

“Coward,” I tell him.