The kiss tasted of history.
It wasn't soft or searching, it was slow, reverent, aching. Like we'd both been starved for something we hadn't known how to name.
My hands curled into his shirt, clutching him like the world might end if I let go. Maybe it already had, and this was all that was left, two broken people finding solace in each other's ruin.
Christian's hand cupped the back of my head, anchoring me in place, like he was terrified I'd vanish if he stopped touching me.
His lips moved against mine with a desperation he hadn't allowed himself to show, a desperation I'd never seen before.
When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine. We didn't speak. We just breathed, panting quietly into the dark, hearts thudding out confessions we weren't ready to say aloud.
I should've felt guilt.
It was too soon to be back here.
Henry deserved more than a few months of tears and guilt.
But all I felt was… alive.
And warm.
And wanted.
