Chapter Eighteen #3
“I want to,” I interrupt. “If you want me to. I just… don’t know how to… I’ve never done this for someone…”
I gesture again, more specifically this time, and watch his jaw clench.
“You do not have to—”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I want to.”
The distinction matters to both of us.
He exhales slowly, eyes searching my face. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then come here.”
I move back to the bed, suddenly nervous in a completely different way.
He reaches for my hand and brings it to rest on his thigh. “You can touch me. Or not. Your choice. No expectations.”
The permission steadies me.
My hand slides higher, tentative, until my palm rests over the hard length of him through denim.
He makes a sound low in his throat.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Yes,” he grits out. “Exactly like that.”
I stroke him through the fabric, learning the shape of him, the heat, the way his hips shift when I press just right.
His hand covers mine, not to stop me, but to guide me . “Firmer,” he murmurs. “You will not hurt me.”
I adjust my grip, and his head falls back against the headboard.
“Dea,” he breathes. “Yes. Like that.”
Watching him lose control is its own kind of revelation.
His breathing roughens. His jaw clenches. The controlled, careful man dissolves into someone raw and wanting.
“Sophia,” he warns. “Close.”
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
His hand tightens over mine, guiding the rhythm faster, and then he’s there—body going rigid, a harsh sound torn from his throat as he pulses beneath my palm.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he catches my wrist gently, stilling my hand. His chest heaves.
“Should I—” I start.
“No,” he says. “Just… stay.”
I curl into his side, my hand still resting on his thigh, and he wraps his arm around me.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice rough.
“For what?”
“For choosing that. For me.”
“I wanted to,” I say simply.
He presses his lips to my hair. “I know. That is why it matters.”
We sit like this for a moment, breathing together, my hand still resting on his thigh.
Then he shifts slightly, grimacing.
“I should…” He glances down at himself, then back at me with a rueful expression. “Clean up.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
He stands carefully, and I try very hard not to stare at the obvious wet spot darkening his jeans. I fail. He notices.
“You are staring,” he says, not unkindly.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.
His mouth curves. “I am not complaining.”
He disappears into the tiny bathroom. I hear water running. When he returns a minute later, he’s cleaned up as best he can, though the damp patch on his jeans is still visible.
He catches me looking again.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“You look…” He searches for the word. “Relaxed. Not completely. But more than before.”
I check in with my body. He’s right.
The buzzing is still there—my nervous system doesn’t do quick resets—but it’s quieter. Grounded in warmth instead of panic. In him instead of them.
“Come back,” he says, patting the bed beside him. “No more trying to climb me like tree. For now.”
“For now,” I echo, heart doing a ridiculous little flip.
I crawl back onto the bed and lie down on my side, facing him. He stretches out too, leaving just enough space that I have to bridge it if I want more contact.
I do.
I scoot closer, tucking myself against his bare chest, one leg thrown over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He exhales slowly, arm wrapping around my waist, hand splaying low on my back. His skin is warm against mine.
“This okay?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. My mouth curves before I even realize it, a real smile, unguarded and warm, pulled from me like a tide he doesn’t even try to command.
For a while, we just breathe together.
My brain, ever the analyst, tries to catalog this: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear, the way his fingers draw small, absent-minded patterns on the small of my back.
None of it feels like distraction.
It feels like anchoring.
“When this is over,” I say eventually, voice drowsy but clear, “when the ethics complaint is filed and I’ve told the dean I’m not backing down and I’ve either destroyed my career or saved it…”
He hums, a low sound of acknowledgment.
“…after that,” I continue, “I want you to take me apart on this bed.”
His body goes very, very still.
“Is that so?” he asks, voice suddenly rough again.
“Yes,” I say, smiling into his skin. “Because then it will be about us. Not about them. Not about what they took. About what we’re choosing.”
He swallows audibly.
“I will hold you to this,” he says. “After the fight. When you are ready.”
“After the fight,” I agree. “That’s the line we draw. We stop here now… and pick up the rest later.”
His hand tightens briefly on my waist, as if he’s imprinting the promise into both of us.
“Then it is decided,” he says.
The word settles over us like a blessing.
I let my eyes drift closed, fatigue finally catching up now that my body has something safe to rest against.
“Flavius?” I murmur.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For… stopping with me instead of for me.”
His lips brush my hair. “We stop together,” he says. “We fight together. We choose together. That is what I want.”
It’s the last thing I hear before sleep pulls me under—his voice, steady and sure, and the quiet drum of his heart under my ear.
Tomorrow, I’ll chart timelines and draft complaints and decide whether to risk everything on truth.
Tonight, I rest in the arms of a man who holds both my sharp edges and my soft places without flinching.
We’re not running away.
We’re resting before the battle.
And when the fight is done—win or lose—we’ll come back to this bed, to this line we drew together, and cross it on purpose.
On our terms.
After the fight.