Page 41 of Oliver

“Good,” he said. “Let’s build something new.”

Later that night...

The fire had burned low, casting soft golden light over the living room. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, but inside, it was still. Warm. Quiet.

Oliver was lying on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other reaching for me.

I came willingly.

He pulled me down beside him, and for a while, we didn’t speak. He just held me, his fingers tracing lazy circles along my back. My head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart like it was my own.

“I still have nightmares,” I whispered. “But they’re getting quieter.”

“Good,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I want to be the reason they stop.”

I looked up at him, our faces inches apart. “You already are.”

I leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep, deliberate.

His hand tangled in my hair as he kissed me back, not with urgency, but with need. The kind that had waited, simmered, built over weeks of separation and fear. This wasn’t about forgetting what happened. It was aboutrememberingwhat we still had.

He sat up, lifting me with him, and I straddled his lap, his hands steady at my waist.

“Are you sure?” he asked, searching my eyes.

“I’m not broken,” I whispered. “I’m alive. And I want to feel alive with you. I want you inside of me right now.”

That was all it took.

His mouth found mine again—hotter this time, hungrier. His hands slid beneath my sweatshirt, palms warm against bare skin. I gasped softly as his touch ignited every nerve ending in me. I tugged his shirt over his head, needing to feel him—solid, real, mine.

He lifted me in one smooth motion and carried me down the hall, never breaking the kiss, our hearts pounding in sync.

When he laid me on the bed, he took his time.

Every kiss was reverent.

Every touch was a promise.

His mouth followed the path of my scars, kissing each one like he was stitching something broken back together. I traced the muscles of his back, holding him closer, letting him anchor me.

And when he finally moved inside me, it wasn’t frantic or rushed—it was everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d survived, everything we were becoming.

We moved together slowly, in rhythm, like a tide pulling us both to shore.

And when I came apart in his arms, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt free.

Afterward, he wrapped me in his arms, our legs tangled beneath the sheets. I rested my head on his shoulder, listening to the rain that had started tapping against the roof.

“I don’t know what my life looks like next,” I whispered, sleep brushing at the edges of my voice.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured. “One piece at a time.”

And I believed him.

For the first time in a long time—I believed I didn’t have to figure it all out alone.

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