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It’s intense. Messy. Beautiful.

His name leaves my lips on a broken moan as he drives into me, deeper, harder, forehead pressed to mine.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good, Mya. I could stay here forever.”

“Then don’t leave,” I breathe. “Not yet.”

His rhythm stutters, his hand finding mine, fingers lacing tight as my body clenches around him, wave after wave crashing through me until I cry out his name like a prayer.

And when he follows—loud and guttural and completely undone—he doesn’t pull away.

He stays.

He collapses beside me, pulling me into the curve of his body, his chest still rising too fast, his lips pressed to my temple like a benediction.

I let myself rest there for a moment—soaked in the afterglow, in the heat of him, in the sound of his heartbeat slowing beneath my cheek.

But then his hand moves. Slow. Sliding up the curve of my back, over the nape of my neck, into my hair.

And when I lift my head to look at him—really look at him—it’s all there in his eyes.

The want.

The worship.

The ache.

My body is still buzzing. Still warm and wet and full of him in every sense. And yet, I want more. Not because I need the release. But because I need him. Anchored beneath me. Wrapped in me. Eyes locked. Hands on skin. A reminder that we made it through another stretch apart and found our way back.

Without a word, I swing one leg over his hips and settle on top of him, feeling the shift in his breath the second I straddle him. His hands move to my thighs like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“You sure?” he murmurs, voice still hoarse from earlier.

My answer is a slow, steady roll of my hips, the tip of him already hardening again beneath me.

“Let me have you like this,” I whisper. “Let me love you this way.”

Fletch groans, head tipping back into the pillow as I sink down onto him—slow and deliberate—my breath catching at the stretch, the fullness, the fit of it.

We both shudder.

His hands slide up my sides, gripping my waist like he doesn’t trust himself not to lose control. I start to move—rocking gently, circling my hips, watching his mouth fall open and his brows pull tight like pleasure’s already curling through him again.

This is different.

Slower. Deeper. Every inch of me moving with purpose, with memory, with love too big to speak aloud.

“Mya,” he rasps, dragging his hands up to cup my breasts, thumbing over my nipples as I ride him, slow and steady and shameless. “Fuck. You’re—this is⁠—”

I lean down, pressing my forehead to his, sweat clinging between us, lips brushing his with every breath. “I know,” I whisper. “I feel it too.”

And we stay like that.

Connected.

Moving together in the dark.

No rush. No finish line.