27. Cat #3
He breaks with a sound like a sob, hips stuttering once before he forces them quiet for the wound’s sake, flooding me with heat while his forehead presses to my collarbone.
His whole body trembles. I stroke his hair and keep him inside me through it, clenching gently to milk every pulse, murmuring soft filthy praise that would’ve scandalized the karaoke machine.
“That’s it. Good. So good for me. Bandage intact, husband thoroughly ruined. Checklist complete.”
He laughs weakly into my skin. “Husband ruined is my favorite box to tick.”
I ease off him eventually, hissing at the slick drag, and settle along the safe half of his torso on the couch.
He grabs the throw blanket and drapes it over both of us, then over the belly with extra fussing that makes me roll my eyes and kiss his jaw anyway.
Between my thighs, evidence of what we did cools.
Between our chests, something that feels a lot like granted settles into place, unfinished and imperfect but real.
He traces the edge of where my dress has ridden up my thigh, lazy post-orgasm fingers drawing nonsense shapes. I catch his hand and lace our fingers over the peak of my belly. His thumb brushes my knuckles, and for once I have nothing left to argue.
“Diplomatic addendum,” I say to the ceiling, “karaoke forgiveness should be an internationally recognized diplomatic tool.”
“I’ll draft a memo.”
“You’ll draft nothing. You’ll rest. You’ll let me fetch water. You’ll not be a martyr about the bandage.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Say it nicer.”
“Yes, my wife, who just rode me like a woman with a spreadsheet of grievances and a talent for debt collection.”
I turn my face into his shoulder to hide a grin. “Debt collection. I like that. Adding it to the dirty talk rotation.”
“Please do. I’ll come to the sound of accounts receivable if you say it right.”
“You’re unwell.”
“I’m in love. Overlap is significant.” He presses a kiss into my hair. “Cat. Granted means something to me. I’m going to live like it means something. Every day. Even when you get mean. Especially when you get mean.”
“Good. Mean is free. Sex like that is a loyalty program.”
He snorts. The couch complains when he shifts to get more comfortable under my weight.
I should move us to the bed, his back, my hips, the whole orthopedic lecture waiting in the wings, but for another minute I stay exactly where I am: sticky, triumphant, carefully tucked against the uninjured half of a man who finally heard the word he’d been starving for and then let me set the terms of how we celebrated it.
A little later, I trace the edge of his bandage where it shows above his collarbone.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe a little. It was worth it.”
I press my lips to the skin just above the bandage, careful, and feel him breathe out.
“Nothing is worth getting shot.”
“You are. You and the baby. Everything.”
“The doctor said gentle activity.”
“This was gentle. This was the gentlest I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Mmm.” I nestle closer into his side. “We should move to the bed eventually. The couch isn’t great for your back.”
“In a minute. I’m not ready to move yet.”
“Fair enough.”
We lie there breathing together, the whole world narrowed down to this room, this couch, this man who almost died for me and would do it again without hesitation.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I love you too.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again.”
He says it against my hair, greedy for it, like he’s still making up for every month he went without.
“Max-”
“I spent months not hearing it. I’m making up for lost time.”
“I love you, you ridiculous, tone-deaf, stubborn man.”
“Better.”
I smack his chest, gently, away from the wound, and he catches my hand and kisses my palm.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean tomorrow. Next week. The families, the peace, everything that’s waiting outside this farm.”
“We handle it. Together. The way we should have been handling it from the beginning.”
He adjusts the blanket over us, careful of the stitches and the curve of my belly.
“That’s not a very specific plan.”
“I’m being deliberately vague.”
“Why?”
“Because tonight isn’t about plans. Tonight is just us.” He pulls me closer. “Tomorrow we can figure out the rest of the world. Tonight, I just want to hold my wife and not think about anything else.”
“That sounds suspiciously like avoidance.”
“Tomorrow morning we go through it together. Put it on the calendar if you want. Tonight, may I just hold you?”
I want to argue. There are things we need to discuss, the alliance, Enzo, what happens when the baby comes. But he’s warm against me, and the night is quiet, and for once I don’t want to think about logistics.
“Okay,” I say. “You win. Just us.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me repeat it. It’ll go to your head.”
He kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, I let myself rest without worrying about what comes next.
Tomorrow, the world comes crashing back.
But tonight, tonight is ours.