Page 123 of Jayson
He hums low in his chest, but something about it feels heavier than comfort—like he’s afraid to believe it.
Then silence. A long stretch of it. Not uncomfortable. Just full of everything we’re not ready to say out loud.
His hand stills in my hair.
“I would’ve walked through fire to get back to you, Keira.”
He says it like it’s not up for debate. Like burning for me would be an honor, not a consequence.
And for the first time in a long time, I believe someone means it.
My fingers trail across a scar etched along his collarbone. One of many. All of them maps of a man who’s bled for more than he ever says.
“Is it over?” I ask softly.
His hand slides down my spine in response. “Not yet. But it will be soon.”
“Promise me you’ll stay safe. That you’ll come back.”
He tilts my chin up, makes me look at him. His eyes are raw, stripped down to nothing but truth. No armor. No lies.
“I will always fight for you,” he says. “No matter what.”
My throat tightens. I nod, blinking too fast, trying to hold it together. Again.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.
His hand cradles my jaw. His lips brush the corner of my mouth.
“You don’t have to. We’ll learn together.”
His thumb finds my lower lip, dragging across it like he’s memorizing the shape of the word he’s about to say.
“You and me, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I breathe it into his skin.
And maybe it’s the quiet. The safety. The way he looks at me like I’m more than the worst things that happened to me—but something worth rebuilding.
But the ache starts again. Slow. Steady. A heat blooming low in my belly that he feels too, because his hand slips to my hip, and his mouth finds mine—gentle this time.
Like he’s falling in love with me in pieces.
And when I pull him back into my arms, there’s no rush. No sharp edges.
This time, it’s slower.
This time, it’s worship.
His mouth traces my jaw, my throat, every kiss drawn like a prayer. His touch is reverent. His hands don’t just roam—they remember. My skin, my scars, the shape of what I’ve become beneath him.
My hands slide up his back, over sinew and scars. I learn him like scripture. Each mark a psalm. Each breath, a gospel.
He presses his forehead to mine. Our breaths tangle like threads.
“I need to feel all of you,” he murmurs. “I need to feel your soul.”
