Page 114 of Veil of Smoke

“Viviana,” I whisper back, her name the only word that matters, slipping from me like a vow. I kiss her again, deep and slow, tasting her choice.

I move with her, our rhythm steady, a dance we’ve learned step by step. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in, and I feel her warmth, her pulse against mine.

She shifts, rolling us, and now she’s above, her hair falling dark around her face. I grip her thighs, guiding her, and she moves slow, deliberate, her eyes locked on mine.

I trace her ribs, my thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she gasps soft, rocking against me. I feel every shift, every breath, and it’s enough.

She leans down, her lips grazing my ear, her breath warm and ragged. I turn my head, kissing her neck, tasting the rain still clinging there.

I roll us again, settling between her thighs, my hands sliding up her arms. She arches into me, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and we move together, steady, deep.

Her breath quickens, a soft sound against my ear, and I kiss her jaw, her cheek, her lips, each one a mark of this moment, this trust.

I feel her tighten around me, her body trembling faint, and I hold her close, my hand cradling her neck. She whispers my name, a quiet claim, and I answer with hers.

We slow, easing into each other, our movements soft now, lingering. I brush her hair back, damp strands sticking to my fingers, and she smiles, tired but radiant.

I shift, rolling to my side, pulling her with me. We lie tangled, her leg draped over mine, her head resting on my chest, and I feel her heartbeat, steady against me.

“You still smell like flowers,” I say, my voice low, brushing her hair back again, the scent faint but there, woven into her.

She laughs, a tired, glowing sound that fills the loft. “Roses from ruin,” she says, her hand resting on my side, warm and sure.

“And I’d plant them again,” I murmur, my lips brushing her forehead, “just to find you.”

She shifts, looking up at me, her eyes soft in the dim light. “What are we now?” she asks, her voice quiet, searching.

I hold her gaze, feeling the weight of it, the truth of us. “Alive,” I say, my hand tracing her arm, steady and real.

She nods, a small smile tugging her lips, and I look at her, like prayer, like she’s the answer I’ve been chasing all along.

“And finally home,” I say, my voice soft, certain, the words landing true.

The loft hums around us, the candles flickering low, wax pooling on the crates. I feel her breath against my chest, warm and even, a rhythm I could live by.

Rain taps faint against the skylight, a gentle echo of the storm we’ve left behind. I trace her shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath, the life in her.

She shifts closer, her hand sliding to my hip, resting there. I kiss the top of her head, tasting the dampness still clinging to her hair.

The jazz notes from below have faded, the record silent now, and the quiet wraps us tight, a cocoon we’ve built from ruin.

The rain taps one last time, then fades, and I hold her, my hand on her waist, knowing this is where we begin again.

Chapter 29 – Viviana

I turn the key in the lock, the click sharp and satisfying. Late morning sun spills through the restored windows of the storefront, warming my hands as I push the door open.

The new awning stretches above, black canvas with gold lettering that reads Ash & Bloom. No grand reopening fanfare, no ribbons or crowds—just this, breath and light and soil caked under my nails.

I flip the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN,” the wood smooth under my fingers. A playful spring breeze sweeps in, scattering petals along the sidewalk outside.

Inside, the air hums with peonies, basil, and clean wood, a scent that fills my lungs and settles me. Wind chimes tinkle faint above the door, their notes dancing on the breeze.

I step to the worktable, running my hands along its edge. This same surface once held roses I trimmed in a life that feels distant now, sharp with thorns I didn’t see.

Today, I arrange tiger lilies beside marigolds, their colors bold and unapologetic—strength tangled with grief, just like me. My fingers brush the petals, soft but firm, and I feel the difference in my bones.

The door swings open, and a local steps in, her smile sleepy but warm. “You’re open?” she asks, peering at the jars of blooms lining the reclaimed shelves.

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