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He's quiet.

"Is it bad?"

"After the Final. Please."

He looks at me, and I watch him decide. I watch him decide to let it go. I watch it cost him something.

"Okay," he says. "After the Final."

He crosses the rug and puts his arms around my waist and his face against my neck, and he holds on. I hold on back. I can feel him breathing against my throat.

"Can I ask you for something?" I say into his hair.

"Anything."

"Tonight." I swallow. "Can I—I want to—" I don't know how to say it. I've never asked for anything, not like this. It's always been him asking. Him leading. Him telling me what to do, and me following, and learning that I liked it, and never once being the one to ask.

He pulls his head back and looks at me. His eyes are dark.

"Say it," he says. "You can say it."

"I want to be the one," I say. "Tonight. I want to take care of you. The way you take care of me."

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at me like he's seeing something for the first time.

"Rule five," he says softly. "In here, I'm in charge."

"I know."

"So I'm in charge." He puts his hand flat on my chest. Same place. It's always the same place. "I say yes."

He takes my hand and leads me down the short hallway to the bedroom. The door stays open behind us. Red and green and blue light from the Christmas lights spills across the floor and up the wall, soft enough that I can still see every expression on his face.

He stops at the edge of the bed and turns to me.

"You're in charge of this," he says quietly. "Rule five still stands. I'm just handing it to you tonight. I can stop you. You can stop me. Same as always."

"Okay."

"Tell me what you want."

I swallow. The words feel bigger than they should. "I want to take care of you. The way you always take care of me. I want to be inside you. If you still want that."

His eyes darken. "I want that."

He reaches for the hem of my shirt and waits. I nod. He pulls it off slowly, then does the same with his own. We undress each other in near silence—jeans, socks, everything—until we're both bare. The Christmas lights paint shifting colors across his collarbones, the scar on his chin, the lean muscle of his stomach.

I guide him onto the bed on his back. He goes willingly, legs parting to make space for me between them. I settle over him carefully, mindful of my knee, and kiss him—slow, deep, no urgency at all. Just the press of mouths and the quiet sound of breathing.

When I sit back on my heels to reach for the lube in the nightstand, my knee catches. A sharp, bright spike of pain shoots up through the joint. I hiss and freeze.

Rémy's hands are on me instantly. "Hey. Easy."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. You're limping on it every shift." He sits up a little, eyes concerned. "We can stop. Or you can stay on your back and I can⁠—"

"No." I shake my head, managing a small, rueful laugh. "I asked for this. I want this. Just… give me a second."