“Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ruin you again.”
He laughs, full-bodied and rough. “I’m already ruined.”
“Good,” I say. “That’s my kink.” I pull him back down. “Now stop talking and hold me.”
He reaches for the throw blanket, the green one with the gold threads, and pulls it over us without making a big deal of it.
Then one hand finds my hair, slow and steady, stroking through it.
He holds me.
And I fall asleep in his arms.
I wake up sore in places I didn’t know I had muscles and smelling coffee like I just manifested it with post-sex witchcraft.
Saul’s not in the bed anymore, but the sheets still carry his heat, his scent, and probably a very explicit memory if I lean in too close.
I stretch, and my body whines in that fucked-full, God-bless-his-hips way.
And I smile. Not the trauma smile. Not the “this is fine” smile. A real one. The kind that starts low and sneaky and makes your toes wiggle under the covers because your life doesn’t suck for once.
I pull on my shirt and pad out to the kitchen.
He’s shirtless in my kitchen, hair doing chaotic science things, pouring coffee like he didn’t absolutely rearrange my internal geography last night.
And I want him again. Immediately. Even if I have to crawl across the floor to get to him.
He looks like sin and comfort had a baby. Like Sunday morning and Saturday night had a one-night stand and named it Saul.
“You made coffee,” I say.
He turns. His eyes travel down my body, my bare legs and his expression goes warm. “You needed coffee.”
“You know me so well.”
I cross to him. Wrap my arms around his waist from behind. Press my face into his back.
He covers my hands with his. We stand there for a moment, not talking, just breathing together.
“What time do you have to go?” I ask.
“Few hours.”
A few hours. That’s all we have left.
I wait for the panic to hit. The grief. The familiar sensation of someone I love walking out the door.
It doesn’t come.
“Hey.” Saul turns in my arms. Tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“The thinking face. The one that usually means you’re spiraling about something.”
“I’m not spiraling.” I pause. “I’m waiting to spiral. But it’s not happening.”
“Is that good?”
