After the river they'd ducked into a narrow storefront with too much mirror and come out with paper bags in hand, Harper's a little heavier from a slim tube and pencil she'd grabbed at the counter. Now, hours later, the long hall took them in dressed a shade nicer than their days usually allowed. Harper wore dark jeans with a little give and a ribbed ivory tank; her hair was down, ends still damp, a faint sweep of liner at her lashes and a soft gloss at her mouth that felt almost unfamiliar. Brock had traded cargo cloth for charcoal slacks and a rolled-sleeve button-up, top button open.
Their steps fell even on the floor, vent hum rising underfoot. She rolled her shoulders once, keeping the motion small where her body still pulled tender; he caught it anyway, straightened her strap with two fingers, and matched his pace to hers, his hand brushing warm at her back when the corridor narrowed.
The air ahead held a pocket of quiet, like breath before a laugh. Warm light bled in a thin seam under the war room door; beneath it came the muffled clatter of cutlery, a strangled burst of laughter, a bass line that thumped once before someone palmed the speaker.
Harper smoothed the hem of her tank and told herself the prickle in her chest was anticipation, trying to ignore how close it sat to alarm. Brock slowed with her without making a show of it. His palm settled at the small of her back, steady. "Ready?" he asked—not doubt, just ritual.
She tipped him a nod that felt like stepping onto a mark.
He thumbed the latch and pushed.
The room caught itself—sound dipping like a wave that's seen the shore. Music ran low from a scuffed speaker in the corner, not loud enough to fight voices. Maps were rolled and bungeed to the wall; lamps threw warm ovals across a long table crowded with plates that didn't match. A dark bottle sat center like a small anchor.
Onyx and Kier worked the sideboard—steam rising off a tray of roast, bowls of rice and greens, a lopsided cake with one crooked candle. Mason had a sleeve shoved to his forearm and a serving fork in hand. Vale leaned back, boots down, grin half-formed. Cole and Price held the far end, glasses near. Gunner had a shoulder to the jamb, eyes up. Nolan was already pushing to his feet. Jensen stood just behind him, one hand hooked over a chair-back, while Briggs had dropped heavy into the seat across, arms folded but eyes steady on the door.
Harper took it in—the way a room declares intent: food, light, a seat waiting—and something shifted low. It wasn't quite alarm; it was the unfamiliar weight of a thing meant for her. She found herself standing a breath taller without meaning to.
Vex stood at the head, jacket clean under a hard bar of shadow. He didn't smile; he didn't need to. Noise pared itself down a notch to make space.
Brock's hand found the small of her back—a light nudge that read go on. Nolan rose fully, scraped a chair out with his heel, palm on the backrest, chin tipping up. "Here," he said, like he'd been keeping it warm.
Harper crossed, brushed her fingertips over his shoulder in thanks, and slid in. Chair legs thudded against the table's stretcher; her palms found the edge, grounding. For a moment the eyes around the table still weighed on her, the silence stretched thin.
Two seats down, Vale rocked his chair onto two legs and let a grin curl in. "Thought you were gonna make us eat without you." He caught a bottle by the neck and set it by her elbow with a soft glass clink that carried welcome without saying it.
Mason's sleeves were already rolled. He speared the roast, tested the give with a knife, angled the platter so juices wouldn't run. "Gonna plate you before I start lecturing," he said, dry, sliding slices onto a dish. The plate skimmed down the wood and stopped in front of her; rice followed, then a careful ladle of gravy steadied with two fingers so it wouldn't slop.
At the sideboard, Onyx shifted a tray with a forearm and shouldered a lid. "Hot plates," he warned, steam fogging the lamp glass. Kier, wrist under a stack of bowls, ghosted behind chairs laying greens at intervals—fingers quick, eyes already on the next reach. "Roast won't wait," he said without looking up.
Cole lifted his glass in a short salute, a dry smile cutting in. "Welcome in." Price, pouring water one-handed, added a small tilt of his chin. "Save me the end," he said, nudging the pitcher toward her knuckles with the back of his thumb.
Jensen slid his chair out at last with a scrape, leaned an elbow on the table's edge, and gave her a nod that read as recognition, not show. "Good pull," was all he said, but it carried weight.
Across from him, Briggs tore a roll in half, thumb pressing the seam flat before he passed one down the line. "Long road to this seat," he rumbled, eyes steady on her a moment before dropping back to his plate.
Gunner pushed off the jamb, crossed to the table, and dropped into a chair across the corner from Vale. His gaze skimmed her, catalogued, then parked on the room. "Voss," he said—flat, neutral—and straightened a drifting napkin like it bothered him.
Brock took the seat opposite Harper—angled toward the door by habit—pulled his chair in with a knee, and set his palm flat to the table, fingers splaying once before curling in. He checked the line of her plate, turned the fork so the tines faced her hand, and left it there, quiet as a claim.
Plates made a last soft circuit—roast and rice, greens, bread passed hand to hand—then the shuffle stilled. Chairs edged in. Glasses touched wood. The low track from the speaker held the room together without asking for it.
Vex lifted two knuckles and tapped the table once. Talk cut. He let the quiet stretch for a moment, then broke the seal on the dark bottle and poured until the liquid went near-black. He slid the glass; it stopped in front of Harper.
"This is simple," he said. "Voss is marked in. Lawson has her—his watch, his call." His gaze walked the table, then came back to her. "You were useful when it counted. You kept the corridor open. The load came home, and so did the crew. That wasn't luck, and it wasn't weather. That was you." A small nod—the kind he didn't hand out twice. "That's worth keeping."
He poured his own and set the bottle down. "Tonight isn't a briefing. It's a mark. Eat. Drink. Take the welcome." He lifted his glass. "To the work." A breath, looser by a hair. "To Voss."
Glasses lifted. "To the work," rolled the table, then tightened into a single echo: "To Voss."
Harper brought the near-black up. The smell hit first—smoke charred into something chemical, like burned medicine. Her stomach pulled tight on reflex. She felt Brock's eyes on her over the rim, watching to see if she flinched. She tipped it in anyway. The first swallow scorched all the way down, rough enough to drag a cough out of her if she let it; the second chased it, heat climbing into her sinuses, eyes stinging. She set the empty glass down with a clean thunk and kept her face steady.
Across the table, Vex drank his own and eased the glass back to the wood. For a moment the room held, eyes on her. Brock's hand rested near her empty glass, fingers uncurling from where they'd tightened against the table edge, something like approval in his gaze.
Then the room broke open—a cheer, chairs scraping, a fork rattling against wood, the speaker nudged louder as the track jumped a notch.
Plates steadied the noise. Forks found work; talk ran in short lanes—who grabbed which corner of the choke, who saw the van first, how the rain turned to steam off the docks—then drifted toward nothing at all. Mason kept the roast moving, wrist sure with the knife. Onyx ghosted a tray down the far side, topping water, swapping out a dull knife for a sharper one without pausing the song. Kier slid a bowl of greens between elbows and stole a roll with two fingers like he hadn't. Harper ate until the knot in her stomach loosened; the chair took her weight like it had been saving the spot.
The bottle made a cautious second round. Vale tipped it over her glass with a flourish he hadn't earned; Brock eased a pitcher in behind and settled it by her elbow. "Cut it with water," he said, easy, and she topped the glass off, letting the darker liquor thin to something she could manage.
Nolan slid the heel of the bread off the basket onto her plate without looking up. "Best part," he said. "Vale'll try to lift it if you leave it sitting there."
Harper knocked her knuckles lightly against his forearm. "Look at you, guarding my dinner."
His mouth twitched. "One night only. Eat it before Graves walks by and starts a lecture about balance." A small grin cut through and was gone. He nudged the butter her way with two fingers. "Get some on it."
Across the table, Jensen caught her eye over the rim of his glass, gave a small tilt in her direction, then dropped his gaze back to his plate.
The music ticked up a notch. Stories grew teeth, then softened at the ends. Cole said something dry that made Price snort into his glass; Price answered with a line that made Cole roll his eyes and drink anyway. Gunner argued with the speaker until the track changed to one even older; someone rapped the table in time, and the room answered with heels under the wood.
Vex held the head long enough to finish his glass and a plate cleaned to the seam, then stood with the kind of quiet that makes its own space. "Tomorrow is tomorrow." A nod at Brock. A smaller one at Harper. The door shut behind him and the night inhaled.
Noise rushed in to fill the space he left. Vale launched into a lie about a warehouse dog that grew with every laugh. Mason started to correct him and stopped, face cracking into something almost like a smile; he shoved the bread basket at Vale like a citation. Onyx slid an old filter back into the speaker and the bass warmed. Kier rolled the crooked candle between his fingers, his glance flicking to Harper and back to the cake, waiting.
After that her glass spent most of its time on the wood; Brock's hand did small work—spinning the bottle past her, parking water inside her reach, a fingertap on the table when the room tipped too bright. She let the heat sit in her cheeks and felt something inside her guard loosen another inch. Three conversations ran at once and she didn't mind not catching every word; the sound held without asking her to hold it back.
"Cake," Onyx announced, verdict clean. The room rallied. Nolan struck a kitchen match off the table edge and cupped the flame while Briggs planted the candle at a drunken lean. Somebody killed the overheads; the lamps held.
A chant tried to start—"Harp, Harp"—then broke itself into laughter.
"No speeches," Nolan warned, match close. "Not your night to work."
She leaned in and blew the candle anyway, the breath coming out harder than she meant. For a moment the dark held, then heat and cheer hit together. Frosting smeared wrong where the knife fought the crumb; Onyx handed her the ugly corner on purpose. It tasted like sugar and vanilla and the kind of noise you didn't have to survive.
The room loosened a notch at a time—forks slowing, napkins crumpling, music warming—until the candle's stub and the scuffed speaker turned the scene into something her body already knew. For a breath the table doubled: another night layered over this one, cheap cake sagging in the heat, a chorus too loud and off-key, Dante's arm at her waist, a voice in her hair wishing her another year. That life had been hers once. This was now—different faces, different hands passing bread, the same stupid candle tilt. She was celebrating with the crew who'd ended that life and, somehow, built this one. It hit first as a knot in her chest and then, strangely, as slack.
She set her glass down and traced a fork tine along the grain to ground herself. The table blurred a moment, old voices over new, then steadied as fingers brushed the back of her chair—bare, careful. Brock had come around, close enough that his shadow tipped across her plate.
"You with me?" His voice was low, meant only for her.
She looked up, the echo of another arm at her waist pulling tight for a moment. But it was his face there now, his steadiness, his hand holding her to the room. She gave a small nod, enough to answer.
The room took her back in on its own rhythm: Onyx carving a lopsided corner, Kier sliding plates, Vale carving the air with his hands, Mason pretending not to laugh. She let it in and found she could stay.
The bottle started to orbit—not aggressive, an easy drift that found empty glasses and left a little heat behind. Vale tipped a finger's worth into hers; Brock's water followed like a shadow. "Half," he said. She traded, felt the mix settle warm in her chest, and didn't mind how her shoulders dropped another notch.
Vale tried a toast so dumb it bent back into funny. Mason muttered, "God help us," and still knocked his glass to hers. Jensen and Price ran a two-line bit they'd clearly been saving; it landed until Price's straight face cracked, and he drank to hide it. Gunner angled the speaker, found an old track with a dirty bassline, and pretended it had been the plan. Kier stole olives; Onyx saw and let him.
Harper laughed—first small, then the kind that folds you. It surprised her enough to set her back in the chair; she pressed her knuckles to her mouth and let it run.
"You breaking in the new laugh or is that a loaner?" Nolan asked, shoulder bumping hers.
"Limited run," she said, eyes wet in a clean way.
"Keep it." He snapped a bottle cap and sent it ringing into an empty glass like a trick shot.
When the liquor in her glass climbed higher than it should, Brock tipped his own to intercept the extra without commentary. When her water slid out of reach, it returned under her hand. "You good?" he asked once, low.
"Yeah." She grinned at the word and at him. "Maybe better than that."
The music edged up and the table answered. Jensen drummed with two forks; Cole stole one and found the rhythm; Price kept time with a knuckle. Mason stacked empties into little engineering projects no one dared topple. Onyx coaxed a chorus out of a room that doesn't sing; it missed the key and nobody cared.
When someone yelled "Story!" Harper gave them the smallest one she had—the diner, the huge food order, the way Brock told her no one was looking for her when she was nervous in the noise, her throwing it back at him when he kept watching the door.
Vale tried to needle; she cut him with a look she'd borrowed from Nolan and a line she'd stolen from Brock. The table howled. Vale hid his answer in his glass.
A shift in her tank caught the lamplight—just enough sheen at her ribs to flash the second skin. The ones who'd seen her in medical that first week knew what lay under it; the rest had heard "Crimson Viper" often enough to guess.
"That's new," Vale said, brow lifting. "Thought you'd sworn nobody was touching that snake."
"Guess I changed my mind." She glanced at Brock; he didn't stop her, only said, "Careful."
She pushed up enough to face the lamp and hitched the hem a couple of fingers' worth. The film caught the light, glossing the ink; beneath it, a single black stroke cut through the serpent coiled up her side. Not an erasure. A mark.
The room thinned quiet.
Onyx let out a low whistle, palms lifted like he wouldn't dare touch. "Okay," he said, quiet. "That's a choice."
Mason's hand flattened on the table near his fork, his brow furrowing as he took it in. "That's not coming off," he muttered. "You sure as hell meant it."
Nolan gave the faintest grunt, arms folded. "Good," was all he added.
Gunner's gaze lingered longer than the rest. He didn't speak, just nodded once, heavy.
The others didn't need to add to it—eyes flicked, shoulders shifted, the silence carrying enough on its own.
She let the hem fall. The room didn't go solemn; it went sure. Someone rapped the table back into the track, and the noise picked up where it left off, steadier. Brock's fingers found the chair again as she sat, a light touch that said he was with her in the showing—that it counted.
The cake devolved like cake does—corners gone first, frosting skinned with a spoon, someone forking the crater until Onyx swatted their hand with a napkin. Kier produced a bottle of something red from nowhere and doused his slice; Vale stole a bite and nearly choked. "That's not frosting."
"Never said it was," Kier said, pleased with himself. Harper laughed hard enough to lean into Brock's shoulder; he caught the chair back with two fingers and let out a breath that told her to take it.
The edges of time went soft. A song from five years back slid in; half the table knew the words and the other half pretended not to. They were bad at harmony and loud about it. Harper's throat loosened enough to hum a line; it surprised her and didn't hurt. Gunner came back with fresh ice without being asked. Nolan poured from an amber bottle and didn't bother to ask who wanted it; hands rose and glasses found their owners.
She felt the moment the room tipped from for her to with her: conversations curved so she could slip into any one and be caught; a glass appeared by her elbow and it was just water; someone tried to start another chant and it died because nobody needed it. She let her laugh run all the way out, full and stupid, and no one waited for the edge of it. The night stretched—not like work, but like permission.
The room eased toward done—music nudged lower, plates scraped clean, chairs backing off a half inch at a time. Mason stacked without being asked, Onyx palmed the speaker quiet, Kier blew the candle's stub and let the smoke climb. Goodnights came the way this crew did them: Vale with a ridiculous bow he couldn't hold, Cole and Price in a two-tap of glasses, Gunner's chin lift from the doorway. Nolan hooked two fingers at her in a small, familiar cue before he shouldered a tray. Jensen slid his chair back with a scrape, gave Harper a nod clean as a signature. Briggs took his time standing, reached to squeeze Brock's shoulder once, and left a rumble in his wake: "Solid work."
Brock tipped the last of her water into her glass and watched her finish it. "Ready to call it?" She nodded. He stood, slid her chair back with a knee, and found her hand just long enough to bring her up without making a ceremony of it. Palms to shoulders, a clap to Brock's back, a quiet "congrats," and the room let them go. She felt the weight of it even as it passed through him—acknowledgment of both what she'd done, and who had staked his name on her.
The corridor held only vent hum and the soft tread of their boots, the spill of light behind them swallowed clean. Warmth sat easy in her limbs, a slow glow instead of a blur. She smoothed the hem of her tank where it caught against her hip. He matched her pace, hands loose at his sides, eyes forward.
They rode the lift. Mirror-glass gave them back a pair stripped of the day's edge—her hair loose and uneven, his collar open, the faint line of tape still tracing his ear. Numbers slid. The car hummed. His palm found the small of her back because it always did; she leaned the inch the space allowed.
The hall outside his quarters was the quiet kind that felt owned. He keyed the lock. The bolt seated with the sound she knew. He didn't speak; he just held her eyes a moment, that small pause he always left for her to take or leave. She held it, then stepped forward.
Dim, familiar air met them—coffee and linen still clinging soft. Boots tapped grit to the mat. The door drew shut on the day and sealed them in, and the night belonged to them.
Brock turned a lamp low and walked his small circuit—shades, bolt, a quick look through the peephole—habit bleeding off his shoulders as he came back to her. He didn't reach first. He just stood close enough that she could feel the heat off him and let the room decide.
She closed the step.
Her hands flattened to his chest through the fabric, tracking the slow rise and fall. His thumb brushed along her cheek; she leaned into it. The first kiss was unhurried—warmth and the faint bite of whiskey—then he drew a breath's width away, eyes holding hers, and went back in deeper. His other hand came to rest high between her shoulders, steadying her in the lamplight while they stayed with the slow of it.
He let slow turn to heat—angling, breath deepening, the kiss shifting from careful to claimed. The hand at her back firmed; the other caught her hip and guided her a half step, then another, steering without hurry. She gave to it, weight leaning in, fingers knotting in his shirt. He walked her backward through the dim, knuckles grazing her jaw as his mouth broke and returned, hungrier now, the burn of whiskey riding his breath between them.
Her spine found the wall—a muted thud, a caught breath that spilled into him. He braced an arm to either side, not trapping, only marking the space around her; his mouth traced cheekbone, the corner of her lips, the line of her jaw. "Okay?" he asked against her skin, checking she was still with him in the push and the press of it. She rose into it, chin tilting, hands sliding to the back of his neck. He took the answer in her movement, deepened it, then eased her off the wall with a palm at her waist and turned them toward the hall.
They moved in close steps, shoulders brushing the jamb as they turned the corner. He caught her mouth once more in the doorway—longer this time, rougher at the edges—and she answered with a sound that pulled him closer. His hand slid firm at her hip, guiding her back into the bedroom on the slow insistence of his body against hers. The lamp in here burned lower, shadows softening the edges until there was only heat, breath, and the steadiness of his hands—careful where they needed to be, decisive everywhere else.
Her calves met the bedframe. She tipped back half a breath, lips parting against his, yielding the space instead of breaking it. He didn't press her down; he just stood close enough for her to feel the choice waiting between them. She gave it, leaned into his hand, and let the mattress take her. The bed sighed under her weight.
He followed on a slow lean, braced on a forearm beside her shoulder, knee wide to keep off her leg. His mouth found hers again—deeper now, hungrier—and she met it full, fingers slipping into the short hair at his nape and tugging him closer. The creak of the frame carried once like a secret, then held, the quiet thick with their breath and the heat between them.
He broke for air at her cheek and traced down—the hollow beneath her ear, the slope of her throat. Heat followed where his mouth had been. He lingered at her collarbone—one kiss just inside the bone, another lower—then the light scrape of teeth that stole her breath. His hand slid along her side and back, fingers spreading just shy of the film at her ribs, anchoring her without pressing where she was new and tender.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured into her skin, the words edged with need.
Her answer came first in sound—a soft, caught noise that betrayed her before words. Then, roughened by the catch of her breath: "Keep going."
He obeyed. A kiss in the dip at the base of her throat, a slow climb back to her mouth, then lower again, to where her pulse ran hot. Her hands moved over him in turn—mapping the rasp of his jaw, the hard plane of his shoulder, the give beneath muscle when her grip tightened. When his mouth found the small hollow where her neck met her shoulder, just above the line of her strap, her breath broke into a rough sound. He stayed there, patient and unrelenting, until her fingers curled into his hair and held him to it.
He laced her fingers for a breath, thumb pressing the quick at her wrist, then set her hand above her head, palm to the sheet—a gentle pin that asked and waited. She curled into the fabric, the smallest nod holding the moment steady. He kissed the inside of her wrist, followed that line back to her mouth, and never hurried.
Then he eased back enough to catch the hem of her tank, hands warm at her sides. "Tell me if anything pulls." She arched into him, breath catching, and he drew the fabric up slow—skimming over the fresh film at her ribs without a snag, baring skin inch by inch until the air turned cool and her body rose to meet it.
His palms followed, smoothing heat where it left, mapping her as if he meant to memorize every line. His mouth traced shoulder into neck—one kiss, then another lower—then a slow breath down the ridge of her collarbone, into the shallow line of her sternum. She tilted her chin, giving him space, and her hands fisted in the sheet as his mouth closed over the swell of her breast, tongue flicking once before he drew at her skin; the sound that broke from her was helpless—raw with want, dragged from somewhere deep.
His mouth left her breast. He traced lower, down the warm plane of her stomach. He paused at her side where the healing graze ran faint and pink—skin pulled thin where the bullet had kissed too close. His lips pressed there once, deliberate, reverent in a way that made her breath hitch. She felt the mark claimed, not pitied, and the sound that left her carried both ache and want. His hand steadied at her waist as his mouth lingered low, the heat of him pulling her open.
Her knee slid higher, bracketing his hip, urging him back up. He followed, mouth catching at her ribs, then climbing again in patient lines until his weight hovered close and she could draw him in with her hands in his hair, her back arched and offering all of her.
He stripped his shirt in one clean pull, lean muscle and heat replacing fabric. The rough of him brushed her forearm as her hand crossed to learn him, fingers tracing the slope of shoulder into chest. He kissed her—deep, sure—and the sound she let slip into his mouth tightened his breath.
His palm tracked the outer seam of her hip, finding the metal at her fly. He paused, eyes on hers. She lifted into him in answer, wordless but clear. The button gave, the zipper unspooled tooth by tooth. His hand flattened at her waist, thumb just inside the band, skin to skin, mindful of the second-skin gloss over her ribs.
He eased the denim down with steady hands—one leg, then the other—fabric whispering over her calves until it was gone. She writhed under him, trying to chase the warmth of his body as it shifted, breath breaking out of her in a low sound. He stayed close, mouth finding hers again—hungry now, like thanks and claim in the same breath.
He sat back long enough to work his belt and fly. Metal clicked soft; fabric shifted as he pushed the slacks down and away. A moment later he stripped off what was left, and the space between them changed—no layers, nothing buffered. Heat rolled off him, heavy and sure.
Her gaze caught before she could stop it. Brock bare was all planes and damage: shoulders broad and roped with old strain, pale scars cutting across the muscle of his chest, a thin line she recognized near his ribs. Lower, the flat of his stomach narrowed to the clear, unguarded want of him, nothing soft in it. Heat flared low in her belly, a pull so strong it almost hurt. Her breath stumbled; her hand, mid-trace on his shoulder, went still.
He felt it and stilled, too. He lowered only far enough that his mouth hovered a breath from hers, eyes fixed steady on hers. His weight stayed around her, held in check, waiting.
Her chest rose fast under his, breath catching hard. She swallowed, eyes locked to his. "I haven't," she said, low but steady. "Ever."
Everything in him went still. His breath stalled in his chest; heat still ran off him, but his body locked above her, muscles held tight like someone had called a halt mid-stride. His hand eased off her hip, bracing in the mattress instead.
"Harper." Her name left him on a rough exhale, disbelief and something almost like anger at the world threaded through it. His gaze searched hers once, then again, needing to be sure he'd heard right. "At all?"
She nodded, a small, deliberate dip of her head. "At all."
He shifted his weight back, giving her more air, more room, his body still close but not bearing down. His fingers framed her face with a care that felt foreign on his hands. "Okay," he murmured, still shaken. "You don't owe me this. We stop whenever you say. We can stay like this, or less than this. Your call."
She shook her head, certain now, her nails curling into his shoulder, holding him there. "Don't stop." Her hips tipped up against him without thought, the solid press of him against her making her whole body ache forward. Fear fluttered under her ribs, live and insistent, but the words still came. "I want this," she said, the truth catching on her breath. "With you."
His eyes held hers, searching one last time for any crack that read as regret instead of fear. He pressed his forehead to hers, breath unsteady. "Then we go slow," he said, voice rough. "Your pace. You say stop, I stop. Understood?"
Her answer was a whispered, "Understood," her hand sliding into his hair and tugging him down to her again.
For a breath he just held her eyes. Inside, it hit like a round to the chest—the shock that it was him, that no one else had touched her this way, that she was handing him the first and trusting him not to break it. Want coiled tight through him, but under it sat the weight: don't ruin this, don't take more than she's giving. He made himself breathe, muscles locked, centering.
Something settled and hardened in him at once, a decision locking in. His thumb traced her cheekbone, tucking a strand of hair back slow, steady. "Okay," he murmured, voice like gravel made gentle. "I've got you."
Her grip steadied, nails grazing his skin. "I trust you."
His palm slid high between her shoulder blades, firm and warm, drawing her in. He kept her close, breath measured, until her chest fell into his rhythm. The tremor left her on the exhale, caught against his mouth as he kissed her—slow, anchoring. The pulse in his wrist ran hard where it brushed her throat, the rush of it telling her he meant every word.
She answered with a kiss she claimed, fingers fisting at the back of his neck; he let her drag him that last inch. His hand slid under her thigh, lifting, parting, guiding her open. He reached back with his free hand and brushed the dimmer with his knuckles; the lamp dipped lower, the room falling into a softer hush.
He shifted, lining himself up, breath rough against her mouth. "Still yes?" he asked, the words barely more than air between them.
Her yes broke against his lips, then fractured into a gasp when he pressed forward—slow, steady, every inch a burn and a stretch she'd never known. The sound tore out of her throat, half whimper, half moan, nails sinking into his shoulders like she needed him to hold her through it. He stayed with her, kissing her through the sounds, patience wrapped tight around something far hotter.
Her body clenched around him, instinct locking down against the newness; he stilled, turning his head until his mouth hovered near her temple, breath harsh at her skin as he forced himself to wait. For a moment she held there, chest heaving under his, everything in her braced against the drag of him inside her.
Then her thighs tightened around him, pulling, urging him deeper, wordless but clear: don't stop. He obeyed, easing in, her body yielding little by little until his hips met hers, his heat filling her so completely it left no space at all.
She dragged a breath in and let it go against his collarbone, uneven at first, then steadier. The sound that followed was pure want, low and rough against his skin. Every slow drive of his hips pulled another shiver out of her; she met it without thinking, hips tipping up to catch him, chasing the friction. His own control frayed at the edges, every muscle straining to keep from pushing harder than her body could take. The world narrowed to the stretch, the heat, the tremor of her body giving to him, and the first rhythm they found together.