When he touched me this time, it wasn't hesitant.
His hands were warm, steady, sliding to my waist as if they belonged there. I felt it everywhere—heat blooming beneath my skin, years of restraint unraveling at once.
I kissed him like I had been starving.
He responded immediately, backing me toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, never forcing—always waiting for me to pull away but I didn't.
When he eased me down onto the sheets, I felt exposed in ways I never had before—not just naked, but seen.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
I pulled him closer instead.
Clothes fell away slowly, deliberately. Every touch felt intentional—his mouth tracing my collarbone, my hands learning the lines of his back. I gasped when his lips found places no one had ever touched, my body responding before fear could speak.
This wasn't frantic.
It was intimate. Deep. Real.
When we finally came together, it felt like surrender—not to him, but to myself. I clung to him as if anchoring my soul, every movement drawing a soft sound from my throat I didn't recognize as my own.
I didn't think about death.
I thought only of being alive.