29. Home #2
“If you were in trouble,” he continues, his voice steady but tinged with something like regret, “I would be able to feel it. I would know when something was wrong and follow that fear to where you are.”
I stare at the necklace in my hand, the cold metal now feeling much heavier than it did before. Months ago, he gave this to me, and back then, I didn’t realize the weight of it, how much he truly cared, how far he was willing to go to keep me safe, even if I didn’t choose to stay with him.
The realization strikes me like a blow, and I clutch the pendant tighter in my palm. He cared enough, before all of this. He cared enough to make sure that no matter what, I wouldn’t be left alone. “That was so long ago,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I look up at him.
He smiles at me then, the faintest touch of relief in his eyes, as if he is waiting for me to push him away, to reject everything he’s done to protect me. To reject him. But I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze and chance another question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, as if the question itself is harder than he anticipates.
Instead, his eyes soften, and he reaches out to brush a strand of wet hair away from my face, his touch lingering.
“Because I wasn’t sure you would want to know.
And because I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to stay. ”
His words linger in the air between us, the space in the room suddenly growing smaller, closer.
I didn’t realize how much that uncertainty, that quiet distance, was weighing on me until he finally admits it.
It wasn’t just the physical distance that existed between us.
It was the emotional gap, the doubt of whether I would choose to stay, whether I would choose him.
The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It is . . . fragile. Like something can break if we move too quickly, but it is also a kind of quiet surrender. I feel the pull toward him, the need to close that space, to bridge the gap between uncertainty and something more tangible.
I look up at him, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not holding back. There is no hesitation, no fear of what might happen. His eyes are dark, but there is warmth in them, a quiet desperation that mirrors the ache I’ve been carrying in my chest.
I stand slowly, my breath shallow, and close the distance between us. The room seems to shrink as I move closer to him, the sound of my heart thundering in my ears, drowning out everything else.
When I reach him, my hand instinctively goes to his chest, resting over the steady beat of his heart. He is warm, strong, and real. He isn’t a dream or a fantasy I can escape into. He is here, in front of me, all of him.
His breath hitches when I lean in, and for a moment, I think he might pull away. He doesn’t. He holds still, anticipating what I’ll do next.
I lean in further, closing the remaining space between us until my lips meet his with a passion that is neither slow nor gentle. It is fierce, born from everything we’ve both held back, from the fears we didn’t speak and the desire that was building between us for far too long.
His hands find my back, pulling me impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, his tongue meeting mine with a hunger that sends a shiver down my spine.
The world outside of us fades away. It is just him and me, in that moment, lost in each other. His hands roam to my hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands, pulling me closer. I gasp as his mouth trails down my neck, sending a wave of heat flooding through me.
He stops for a moment, his lips lingering near my ear as he whispers, “Are you sure?”
I shiver, his voice low and full of a rawness that shakes me to my core. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I breathe, my voice thick with the need that has been simmering between us for too long.
That is all he needs. His lips crash back to mine, this time with even more urgency. His hands move lower, tracing the curve of my back, finding the hem of my nightgown, and lifting it gently.
I don’t stop him. I don’t want to.
Everything about him, the strength, the gentleness, the fire he carries, is overwhelming, and I want all of it.
I need all of it. My mind empties as his hands trail over my skin, losing any notion of what brought us here or what lies beyond this room.
It is just him, just us, in this moment.
The heat between us intensifies, the world outside forgotten.
When he breaks the kiss, both of us gasping for air, his eyes find mine again, searching, asking silently for reassurance. I nod, my hands trembling as I touch his face, pulling him back down toward me.
Everything else melts away.
He grabs my bare legs, lifting them from under my nightgown, and hoists me onto the table. The plate of food crashes to the ground, forgotten, as he makes space for me. He settles between my thighs, his lips crashing into mine once more, the kiss deepening with raw, desperate passion.
I can feel the length of him press against me, hard and ready, too much fabric between us. My hands tremble as I tug at his shirt, pulling it from his body with an eagerness that matches the fire in my chest.
He lets it fall willingly, revealing a muscled body, covered in scars and tattoos of untold stories, stories of battles fought, of pain endured, and of the male he has become.
I freeze for a moment, taking in the sight of him, my breath hitching before pulling him in closer, our mouths finding each other once again in a frenzy of need and longing.