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"Rémy—wait⁠—"

I freeze instantly. Even angry, I freeze.

He breathes hard for a second. Then he reaches back, finds my hip, and pulls me closer.

"Don't stop," he says. "Just—go slow for a second. Then don't."

I push in.

The first stretch is tight and hot and almost too much. He makes a broken sound and his knuckles go white on the counter. I force myself to stop once the head is inside, shaking with the effort of not slamming home.

"Breathe," I order, even though my voice is wrecked. "Let me in."

He does. I feel him consciously relax around me, and I sink deeper, inch by inch, until I'm buried to the hilt. The angle is perfect—standing like this, him bent over his own kitchen counter, Christmas lights blinking stupidly in the living room behind us. I stay still for three heartbeats, letting him adjust, then I pull almost all the way out and thrust back in hard.

He gasps.

I do it again. And again. Rough, fast, the way the anger wants. The sound of skin on skin fills the kitchen. His cock bounces with every thrust; I wrap my hand around it and stroke in time, tight and relentless. He's making these low, punched-out sounds every time I bottom out, and they're feeding the fury in my chest.

"This is what you get for saying it doesn't change anything," I grit out against the back of his neck. "It changes everything. I'm so fucking tired of being careful for you."

"I know—fuck—Rémy⁠—"

I fuck him harder. The counter creaks. Something metal clatters into the sink. His jeans are still around his thighs, mine around my knees, and it's messy and half-dressed and desperate. I reach up and yank his t-shirt higher so I can dig my fingers into the bare skin of his waist. He pushes back to meet every thrust like he's trying to take the anger out of me by force.

It works, a little. The sharp edge starts to dull under the wet heat of him and the way he keeps saying my name like a prayer.

I'm still angry when I pull out suddenly. He makes a wounded sound at the loss. I spin him around again, shove his jeans the rest of the way down, and hoist him up onto the counter. He goes willingly, legs spreading to make room for me between them. I step in close, line up, and push back inside in one long slide.

Now we're face to face.

His eyes are dark and wet. His mouth is open. I start thrusting again, slower this time because the angle is deeper and I can see every flicker of feeling cross his face.

That's when he says it.

"I'm scared every single day," he manages, voice raw. "That someone will see. That they'll look at me the way they looked at Danny. That I'll lose the room. That you'll get hurt because of me. And I still can't stop. I can't stop wanting you. Even when I say the wrong thing. Even when I hurt you. I can't stop."

The words hit harder than any of the rough thrusts. Something in my chest cracks wide open. My eyes burn. I try to blink it away and fail. A tear slides down my cheek and he sees it. His hands come up immediately, cupping my face, thumbs brushing the wetness away.

"Rémy—"

"I hate this," I whisper. My hips have slowed almost to a stop. I'm still buried deep inside him, but the anger is draining out, leaving only the ache. "I hate that I love you and I still have to hide. I hate that I told those kids not to hide and then I came home and did it anyway. For you."

He pulls me closer, forehead to forehead. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

I start moving again, but it's different now. Slow. Deep. Rolling instead of slamming. He wraps his legs around my waist and holds on, and I fuck him like that—face to face, chests pressed together, my hands in his hair, his hands on my back. Every thrust is deliberate. Every time I sink all the way in I feel him clench around me, and every time I pull back he follows, like he can't stand the empty space either.

"Look at me," I tell him, soft now. "Don't look away."

He doesn't. His eyes stay locked on mine while I take him, while the kitchen fills with the quiet wet sounds of it, while the Christmas lights blink blue and red over his shoulder. The tenderness is almost worse than the anger. It's too much. Another tear slips out. He kisses it away.

"I've got you," he murmurs against my cheek. "Even when I fuck it up. I've got you."

I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock again. This time the strokes are slow and careful, matching the roll of my hips. He's leaking steadily, slick under my fingers. His breathing goes ragged.

"Come with me," I tell him. "I want to feel it."

He nods, forehead still pressed to mine. I thrust deeper, angled just right, and stroke him in time. His legs tighten around me. His hands fist in my shirt. When he comes it's with a low, broken sound against my mouth, clenching hard around my cock, spilling over my fist and onto both our stomachs. The way he pulses around me pulls me under with him. I bury myself to the hilt and come deep inside him, shaking, face pressed into the side of his neck, still crying a little even as the pleasure rolls through.