Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Galeana
His weight presses into me, grounding me in the moment, yet I feel anything but confined. He’s still inside me, his body molded to mine as if he’s always belonged here, as if this connection was inevitable. I stare up at him, unable to look away, mesmerized by the intensity in his eyes.
It’s not just lust—it’s more.
The way he moved, the way he touched me, it wasn’t just about my body. It was deeper than that. He didn’t just take; he gave. Every stroke, every kiss, every whispered word—it felt like worship. Like I wasn’t just something he wanted but something he cherished.
Maybe even loved.
The thought terrifies me, but I can’t push it away. Not after this. Not when I still feel the imprint of him on every part of me.
His hand brushes against my cheek, calloused and tender, and it makes my breath hitch. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. The silence between us feels heavy—not with awkwardness, but with meaning. Like we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross, stepped into a place we can’t return from.
I should say something. Something light, something casual to break the tension. But I don’t. I can’t. Because the truth is, I don’t want to throw this away.
We barely know each other. I know that. Logic screams at me to pull back, to protect myself, to build a wall before it’s too late. But after this?
After the way he’s made me feel—completely seen, completely wanted—I don’t know if I can.
I trail my fingers along his jaw, memorizing the sharp angles, the softness in his gaze. “Ledger . . .” My voice is quiet, trembling, because I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
He leans down, his forehead resting against mine, and his breath fans over my lips. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
And I think maybe he does. Maybe he feels it too—the pull, the inevitability, the way this thing between us feels like stepping off the edge of a cliff and trusting the fall. It’s not something either of us can walk away from, not now. It’s too much. Too consuming. Too everything.
And that terrifies me.
It scares me more than what happened last night. More than the uncertain future waiting outside these walls. Because what if he leaves? What if I hand him too much of myself, and he takes it all—takes me—and walks away?
But then I remember the way his touch made me feel. The way his arms around me felt like a fortress, unshakable and safe. I shouldn’t feel that way. I can’t feel that way. He’s still a stranger.
Sure, I know his favorite color is blue. I know he’s played hockey since he was four, skating on some frozen pond that shaped him into the man he is now. But that’s not enough. Knowing scraps of his life isn’t enough to explain why I don’t want to be apart from him, why my body aches at the thought of him pulling away.
No. I’m logical. Practical. I use my head, not my heart. So why is it that, right now, all I want to do is ask him to stay inside me? To move again, to fill me, to make me forget everything outside this moment.
To make me feel alive.
Because that’s what he does—he makes me feel like I’m not just existing, not just going through the motions. He makes me feel awake. Like every nerve, every breath, every beat of my heart has been waiting for him.
I know it’s dangerous. I know I should pull back, rebuild the walls I’ve spent so long perfecting. But with him looking at me like that, like I’m something he’s been searching for his entire life, I don’t know if I can.
And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to.
“What are you thinking, darling?”
“Everything? Nothing?” I murmur, my voice trembling as my thoughts spill over, unable to settle on one truth.
“Too much?” he asks, his tone soft, like he’s trying to catch a fragile thread between us.
I nod, my breaths hitching. “It’s never been so . . . intense,” I confess, the words raw and jagged as they tumble out. He must think I’m na?ve, inexperienced. He’s probably had a lifetime of lovers, countless nights like this. And me? I’m just too much. Too bare. Too . . . me. “So?—”
“Me too,” he interrupts, his voice cutting through the spiral of doubt. His lips brush mine in a kiss that’s almost reverent, a tender punctuation to his words. “Never before. Not like this.”
His admission washes over me, soothing yet unsettling, igniting something dangerous—something I’m not sure I know how to hold on to.
I want to believe him.
I want to believe this is as unique to him as it feels to me.
I want to trust that his words mean what I think they do.
I want to let go of the doubts clawing at the edges of my mind.
I want to give him everything without fear of breaking.
But can I? Instead of answering my own question, a question escapes before I can stop it, “Why?” And I hate how small I sound, how vulnerable.
His hand moves to my jaw, tilting my face toward him, his thumb brushing over my lips. “Because it’s you,” he says, his gaze unwavering, his voice weighted with something that feels like truth. “No one’s ever felt like you. No one’s ever been like you. No one’s ever stayed with me, in my mind, like you do.”
His words undo me, unraveling the last threads of my defenses. I close my eyes, letting them settle into the cracks of my heart, where doubt usually lives.
“Ledger . . .” I whisper, his name breaking on my lips like a prayer, a plea, a surrender. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
More of him?
Less of this overwhelming, all-consuming connection?
Or maybe just the courage to believe it’s real.
To believe that something this good, this overwhelming, can be mine without slipping away. That I won’t lose it the moment I start to hold on.
The thought tugs at something deep inside me, a fragile thread of hope tangled with fear. But his touch grounds me—not just the feel of his hands, but him. The way he sees me, like I’m not temporary. Like I’m worth staying for.
He presses his forehead to mine, his breath brushing against my lips, warm and uneven, as his hand cradles the back of my neck. “Whatever this is,” he murmurs, his voice low but certain, every word sinking into me, “it’s not nothing. It’s not just anything. It’s us. And it’s everything.”
His words hit me like the answer to a question I didn’t even know I was asking, the kind of truth that doesn’t leave room for doubt. It’s too soon, too much, and yet it feels inevitable.
Because life isn’t guaranteed. We could’ve died in that explosion. We could’ve been reduced to memories and ashes. And if this is all we have—this fragile, fleeting moment—then maybe it’s enough.
Maybe we’re meant to live more, to live truthfully. No walls. No fear. No hesitation.
The words I can’t say linger in my mind, pressing against the edges of my resolve. I want more of this, more of him. I want to unravel whatever this is between us, no matter how messy or terrifying it gets.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I stop overthinking. I stop second-guessing. I just let myself feel.
His lips find mine again, soft yet insistent, lingering like a vow whispered against my soul. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a promise—a silent agreement that we’ll figure this out.
Together.
An Us.
Right now, in this moment, he isn’t just everything . He’s mine .
But can something this intense, this overwhelming, really last?
Can something that feels so momentary become permanent?
Can it become a forever?
Our Forever?