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Or the day after that.

Today…

‘The forest?’ I ask breathlessly as he sinks into the tub with me and cages me with his body atop mine.

I feel the cool pressure of him nodding fervently against my collarbone while his head dips.

The forest is not frenzied like it was before.

The walk there is languid. Wrought with small touches we don’t need to steal, but do nonetheless. A brush to my elbow to steady me, a guiding graze to the small of my back as we cross the river on stepping stones, a kiss to the underside of my wrist when our hands intertwine. Small delicate motions, incredibly restrained on both our parts.

There’s no predetermined idea of where we’ll stop or where we’ll go. We come to two trees that wrap around one another, butterflies shift in the sunlight like stars have grown wings and fly among us.

When he stops, I stop with him. He’s looking at me in a way I don’t understand. But I wish I could. I can’t discern the shift in his eyes, the way his brows bunch and then smooth. I don’t know what he means when he smiles quietly with a gentle pull of his lips. He looks at me like I’ve stolen his mind and he has no intention to find it.

I reach for the hem of my shirt first. He does second. Our hands brush. He taps against the back of my knuckles like he’s playing a sonata.

I don’t need to hear him play to know he plays well. Walker is a student of a great many things, I have found. He studies with an utmost attention to detail. I am no different.

I watch him draw my hand away from its task, only to replace it with his own. He undresses me with deliberation. First my pyjama shirt, then my shorts. His hands drag them down and off my legs, and I feel his touch sear my skin like an iron brand. Heated, dangerous and entirely welcome so long as it’s him. His eyes are greedy, feasting on every slither of flesh revealed, flashing hungrily, and in them I see a question. I take his hand and place it against my cheek, leaning into the feeling of actually feeling. His hands are warm and large.

The glade is cool, and when a breeze dips between the trees, I shudder. His eyes dip to my chest and I fight the urge to cover myself; I don’t think anyone’s seen me so completely before. I know no one’s ever seen me in this light.

Walker’s index draws a line down the column of my throat, his eyes flitting between the skin that pebbles beneath his touch and the hazy lust that makes my eyelids drop and my breath stutter.

We speak without words. A questioning tilt, a quirked brow, nods in succession, a lean into the caress. Walker is fluent in me without practice. I don’t know if it’s his touch, or if it’s simply him.

He is everywhere, soft until he knows where a firmer approach is required. Gripping my hips to pull me closer to him. His lips are a lazy wander down my body. Caressing my skin with the same sort of academic fascination he applies to all else, only now, there is a reverence too.

‘Talk to me,’ he says with a parting kiss to my lips before he kneels.

The divide between academia and worship overlap like a Venn diagram, and here I am in the middle. The subject of such studious and devout attention is almost too much to stand. His eyes trained on me as his arms snake around my body and his hands settle on the crease between the top of my thighs and my arse.

‘Miller.’ My name from his lips is a whole sentence. A demand and a request. He’s looking at me expectantly.

‘What do I say?’ I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They’re just hanging by my sides, limp. I want to touch him, but I feel so out of my depth here. I’m wilfully exposed but exposed nonetheless. And he’s… not. My eyes flick to his shirt, and Walker looks down at himself with a frown before a look of understanding crosses his sharp features, and a smirk quirks the corner of his lips.

‘Is this it?’ he asks, brows raised, unbuttoning the top button. I bite my lip and nod.

He huffs. ‘Words, Miller. I can’t get you to shut up ninety-nine percent of the time, but when I actually need your communication, you’re apparently mute.’

I scoff. ‘Can’t get me to shut up, that’s rich⁠—’

His shirt is discarded and my mouth goes dry. I wonder if seeing him will ever grow old. I suppose not. That’s the thing about death. The image never changes.

‘There she is.’ He grins, followed by quick focus. ‘Now talk to me,’ he says, retraining his gaze on the junction of my thighs. He lands a soft kiss to my hip. ‘Tell me what you like.’ His lips trail across my abdomen, to the other side. I gasp, he pulls me closer.

‘I like that,’ I say, small and uncertain.

‘Don’t give me too much, Miller, you’ll ruin me,’ he drawls, sarcastic. His breath against me makes my stomach suck in.

‘I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone with a praise kink.’

His eyes shoot to mine, alight with challenge, before he shrugs far too casually.

‘Every man has his vice,’ he says, before his left hand snakes to the back of my knee and he throws my leg over his shoulder like it’s his favourite accessory.

I don’t have time to make any sort of witty retort before his mouth descends on me. Pulling me out of our fight for the last word.