Page 61
“No rush.” He reaches for my hand, thumb tracing slow circles against my knuckles, careful of the fading bruises still marking my wrist. “Whatever pace your body needs.”
We fall quiet after that, the kind of silence that’s become comfortable between us over these weeks, no need to fill every gap with conversation the way we might have months ago. I watch him in the lamplight, the tension he still carries most days finally loosening now that we’re alone together, his shoulders dropping the way they only seem to around me anymore. There’s a particular ease to these evenings I’ve come to rely on more than I probably should, a small window each day where neither of us has to be anything beyond exactly who we are.
“I keep thinking about that night,” I say eventually, my voice quieter than I mean it to come out. “Not the bad parts. The part where you found me.”
His hand stills against mine. “What about it?”
“You said my name before anything else. Before you even checked if I was hurt.” I study the ceiling rather than his face, needing the distance to get the words out clearly. “I don’t think I ever told you what that sounded like, hearing you say it. Like the whole world narrowed down to just that one sound.”
“I meant every part of it.”
“I know.” I finally look back at him, and something in his expression has shifted, softer than I’ve seen it in weeks, none of the composure he usually wears even in private moments like this one. “I just wanted you to know I heard it. All of it. I’ve carried that sound with me every day since.”
He leans forward slowly, resting his forehead against mine, and neither of us says anything else for a long moment, just breathing the same quiet air, his hand still wrapped around mine on top of the blanket. The room stays still around us, the low lamplight the only source of warmth beyond the two of us, everything else in the house fallen silent for the night.
“Harper.” My name again, softer this time, nothing urgent behind it.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face the last small distance toward his, and the space between us closes slow enough that I feel every inch of it happening.
Nothing about the movement is rushed. No fear or adrenaline runs through it the way it has every other time we have come this close.
My pulse picks up anyway, though it is a gentler kind of quickening than any I have felt with him before, only the quiet anticipation of something I already know I want.
His mouth meets mine with careful pressure. One hand stays cupped against my jaw while the other remains wrapped around mine on top of the blanket, his thumb still moving in those small, steady circles against my knuckles.
The kiss stays gentle for a long stretch of time, more comfort than heat, as if he is determined not to ask anything of my healing body that it cannot give yet.
I answer him the same way, careful of the lingering ache in my ribs, letting the contact remain slow and deliberate.
After a while, the kiss deepens just enough to turn warmer. His lips part slightly against mine, and I feel the quiet stroke of his tongue, still restrained, still mindful. A soft sound leaves my throat and disappears into the space between us.
He answers it with a sharp breath of his own and adjusts the angle of his mouth so the fit becomes even closer.
The hand at my jaw slides a fraction into my hair, holding me with the lightest pressure, while the one wrapped around my fingers never lets go.
Every part of the contact feels intentional and safe, the opposite of every desperate, charged moment we have shared before this.
We stay like that longer than I expect, kissing without any need to push further. The low lamplight, the quiet of the room, and the steady warmth of his hand on mine all settle around the simple fact of his mouth against mine.
I can feel how carefully he holds himself in check, how deliberately he keeps the kiss from turning into anything my body isn’t ready for. The restraint itself becomes part of the intimacy, a quiet promise that he will not take more than I can give right now.
When he finally eases back, it is only by a small distance, just enough that our mouths no longer touch.
He rests his forehead against mine, and I can feel the shape of a smile even though I cannot quite see it from this close. He pulls back after a long moment, resting his forehead against mine again, and I can feel him smiling even though I can’t quite see it from this close.
“That was…” I don’t finish the sentence; I’m not sure there’s a word that fits what just happened.
“I know.” His thumb brushes once along my cheekbone. “Me too.”
We stay like that a while longer, foreheads together, his hand still cupping my face like he isn’t quite ready to let it go yet. Neither of us moves to take it any further, and I understand why without either of us needing to say it out loud.
Tonight isn’t about anything beyond this. Tonight is just this, quiet and slow and entirely enough on its own, no urgency left in either of us to chase it toward anything more.
“I used to think I’d lost the ability to feel safe with anyone,” I say eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “After everything. I thought that part of me might just be gone.”
“And now?”
