Chapter 36
thirty-six
Kate
The door to Josh’s room clicks shut behind us, and it makes me flinch.
He turns toward me slowly, eyes lifting to mine, and I can read every emotion on his face. He’s unguarded. Soft in a way I rarely see. His hair is damp with sweat, and he still has a few smears of paint on his chest, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me.
“Come here,” he says, quietly, voice hoarse from giving everything he had on stage one last time.
I move, eager to be in his arms for as long as we have left.
His hands slide around my waist and I lift my arms, winding them around his shoulders. He leans down, resting his forehead against mine where we stay for a moment—breathing the same breath and letting the silence speak for us.
His lips brush mine in a whisper of a kiss before he finally lets go, and when he does, it’s slow and deep.
Not rushed or greedy. Not taking but giving.
Pouring himself into me. I want to believe that in his own way, he’s trying to say I love you.
I know what I feel, but I also know that Josh’s opinions on love and forever are complicated, and I’m not pushing.
I will continue to take what he gives me until there’s nothing left.
His hands slide beneath my shirt, fingertips tracing my spine, my ribs, my stomach—like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
I tug his shirt up and off, and he helps me do the same with mine, then pulls me against him again, skin to skin. His heartbeat is fast under my palm, and mine stumbles trying to match it.
He walks us backward until the backs of his legs hit the bed, then he sits down, looking up at me like I’m something sacred.
His hands skim up my thighs, slow and reverent, and he leans forward to press a kiss to my stomach just above the waistband of my jeans before resting his head against me as my hands rake through his hair.
“Let me take my time with you tonight,” he says softly. “Please.”
My throat tightens. I place my hand under his chin and lift his gaze to mine. Running the backs of my fingers down his face, I nod.
He undresses me piece by piece, never breaking eye contact, never rushing. Every kiss he places on my skin is patient.
When he finally rises from the bed and lays me back, he covers my body with his, fitting every inch of himself to me like he’s trying to etch the feeling of us this close into his bones.
He doesn’t move at first, just holds me. His hand curves around the side of my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, and I press my lips to the center of his chest, right over his heart.
When he finally sinks inside me, it’s slow. Nothing frantic or rough—just the kind of rhythm that feels like poetry. The kind that makes you feel cherished and loved and known.
We whisper each other’s names. We touch like we’re afraid it’s the last time, but hopeful it isn’t, and when I come undone beneath him, I cry without meaning to. Not from the pleasure—but from the memories of the moments we’ll never get back and the ones we’re hopeful we might still have.
Josh holds me through it. Kisses my tears and whispers things I can’t process right now but will somehow never forget.
And when he finishes, his forehead pressed to mine, he doesn’t let go. We stay there, our hearts still racing, our bodies still tangled, our breaths still shared.
“I’m going miss you so fucking much,” he says, voice cracking.
I wrap my arms tighter around him and whisper, “I haven’t even left yet.”
But in my chest, I already feel the ache beginning.
And I think he does, too.