THIRTY-SIX #4
Dakota notices. Of course she does. Her eyes open, dark and furious and bright. “Don’t stop because of that.”
“Dakota.”
“I know what it is.”
“I need to hear you say it,” I rasp.
Her nails bite into my shoulder just before she says, “Stay.”
The word slices through me like a blade that’s been warmed over a fire, and I move again, slower now. Deeper. Giving her every chance to push me away.
She doesn’t.
Her legs tighten around my hips and her body draws me in, heat and slick need and Omega instinct blaring loudly under her skin. Then I feel it, the first pull of her lock, and the way her body grips mine like it’s decided letting go is for cowards.
Her breath catches. “Oh.”
I go still. “Pain?”
“No,” she answers, eyes squeezing shut. “Just… a lot.”
“I can stop moving,” I offer through strain.
Her hold on me turns vicious. “Don’t you dare.”
So I don’t. I rock into her carefully, caught between the building pressure of my knot and the greedy pull of her body trying to keep me exactly where I am.
The table creaks under us, soil spills somewhere next to her hand, and her mouth opens around sounds she can’t seem to swallow.
And every single one of them makes a dent in my restraint.
“Look at me,” I demand softly, and her eyes snap open.
Furious.
Trusting.
Terrified.
There. There she is.
My knot latches and Dakota’s entire body jolts, and for one weighted second, neither of us breathes.
And then she falls apart around me. Not softly and not delicately, but with my name caught in her teeth and her body locking down on mine, taking the choice we’ve already made and turning it into heat, pressure, and impossible closeness.
I’m completely helpless to follow her over the edge, burying my face against her throat without biting, without claiming, and without taking anything she didn’t put in my hands first.
My knot holds us together, and her lock keeps me inside her. For a while, neither of us moves. I stay inside her until her breathing slows, until her hands stop shaking, and until the greenhouse hum comes back around us and the world remembers it’s waiting just outside the door.
Dakota’s fingers trace a scar near my collarbone. “You didn’t look sad while you touched me.”
“I wasn’t,” I tell her.
“Good.” A pause follows. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”
I lift my head.
She scowls immediately. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I would never,” I promise.
“You absolutely would,” she counters. “You’ve been blessed with cheekbones and emotional competence. It’s actually a very dangerous combination.”
I smile.
She tries not to, and she fails miserably.
We stay joined together longer than either of us acknowledges, because biology doesn't care about emotional pacing. Because my knot doesn’t release just because the world has really bad timing and even worse manners.
Because Dakota keeps one hand wrapped around my shoulder and doesn’t once tell me to move.
I rest my forehead against hers and keep my breathing slow and steady. Her thighs stay snug around my hips, her body warm and locked around mine, but the heat settles into something quieter now. Less demand and more aftermath.
Her eyes drift closed, but not with sleep. Not trust, either. Not exactly. But something close enough that it makes my chest ache.
When my knot finally eases and her body lets me go, I move away slowly, watching her face for pain or discomfort or anything she tries to hide behind sarcasm and brutally aimed jokes.
Naturally, she notices.
“If you look any more medically concerned, I’m going to start charging you for the exam.”
“You’re sore,” I point out.
She shrugs lightly. “I was sore before. This was just recreational damage.”
“That’s a really bad phrase.”
“You’re welcome.”
I shake my head, but then I help her dress slowly. Not because she’s not capable, but because she lets me hand her things and I know the value of small permissions. Her underwear. Her pants. Her shirt. Her jacket.
Her hat waits on the edge of the planter bed and she stares at it for a long moment before taking it. Then she sets it next to her instead of placing it on her head.
That feels like something, but I don’t name it. Naming things too early can sometimes kill them.
Instead, we sit on the floor between the planters after I’ve dressed and discarded the condom. Our backs are against the table and shoulders are almost touching. Her hair stays loose and her bandana stays at her neck.
Minutes pass, more than I expect and more than she planned. I know, because every few breaths, she looks at the door like she remembers she meant to leave.
But then she stays.
Eventually, her head tilts sideways and rests against my shoulder. It’s like a warning shot of comfort, and I don’t dare move.
Outside, the compound holds Maine, secrets, Hale’s suspicion, Mercer’s guilt, and every ugly answer still waiting to open its mouth. But inside, Dakota breathes against me.
Soft doesn’t mean safe. It doesn’t mean fixed. And it doesn’t mean forgiven, healed, or whole.
But it does exist.
Here.
In the damp, green darkness.
In the space between her shoulder and mine.
In the fact that when she eventually whispers, “I should go,” she doesn’t move an inch.
So I answer the only way that matters. “Not yet.”
Dakota closes her eyes.
And then she stays.