Dario laughs softly. “I’ll get water.”
“You don’t have to.”
He’s already up, moving to the bathroom. He returns with a glass, holds it to my lips while I drink.
Aftercare. Dario-style.
Saul’s fingers drift across my skin, lazy as sin. “You alive?”
“Depends. Did I survive, or is this the part where I get haunted by orgasm ghosts?”
He laughs, mouth against my shoulder. “You’re so weird.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
His arm tightens. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”
Enzo shifts, looks up at me. “A year,” he says.
“What?”
“A year since I got here. Since I became Nate Carter.”
“Yeah.” I run my fingers through his hair. “Best year of my life.”
“Mine too.” He pauses. “I didn’t think I could have this. Any of this. I thought I was too broken.”
Dario settles back into bed. His hand finds Enzo’s shoulder.
“We’re all a little broken,” Dario says, Italian accent thicker when he’s tired. “That’s why we fit.”
Enzo groans. “Is this therapy or an orgy? I need labels.”
Saul snorts. “Let the man be poetic. He earned it.”
I snuggle into the tangle, grinning. “You’re all absolute menaces and I wouldn’t trade any of you. Even when you get weird and emotional after sex. I love you.”
There’s a tangle of voices: “Love you.” “Me more.” “Shut up, Enzo.”
We’re a mess. A miracle. A collection of sharp edges that somehow make something soft, and whole, and worth every scar.
I press my face into Enzo’s hair, Saul’s arm heavy over my ribs, Dario’s mouth finding my temple. “You’re my disaster family. You know that, right?”
Enzo snickers. Saul hums. Dario just holds me tighter.
The wind rattles the windows. The house creaks around us. I know, bone-deep, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Not running. Not hiding. Not fading out.
Right here. Hungry and loved and seen.
When I finally drift off, it’s not to dreams of escape.
It’s dreams of Sunday mornings and too much coffee, of flour-dusted kitchens and too many hands and never enough time.
And when I wake up, they’re still there.
Real. Solid. Mine.
I believe that forever actually means something. And it’s ours.
