Page 113 of Unrequited

---

But we both know we don’t.

I’m naked from the night before, nothing between us now but his boxers. I reach for the waistband. He shifts his hips to help me, and then he’s bare—hot, thick, ready.

He spreads my legs gently with his knee and settles between them. Then he positions himself at my entrance and pushes in.

There’s no pain this time. Just heat. Pressure.

I’m full. Stretched, but ready.

So ready.

He glides in and out with ease, slick with how wet I am. We move together in a slow, sacred rhythm. His left hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight, palm to palm.

We make love like this might be the last time. Like we’ll never get another morning like this.

“Seamus,” I whisper, my breath catching. “I’m going to?—”

“Come, lass,” he finishes for me. “Come. I want to feel you.”

And I do. I come apart around him. And as I do, he follows, groaning against my skin.

It’s not as rough or frenzied as the night before, but it’s just as sweet. Just as intimate.

I love being connected to him like this.

I love having him inside me.

I love the heat of his body, the weight of him.

And in that moment, I imagine a future.

A baby.

Maybe this time…

This time, maybe I’ll get pregnant.

And maybe, just maybe, that could end this war.

By the time we’re done, the sun has crested the horizon, painting the world in soft gold.

He rests his forehead against my shoulder, almost boyish in the way he clings to me. His skin is damp, his heartbeat still racing beneath it.

I trace the tattoos on his shoulders with the tip of my finger. Memorizing. Holding on.

He whispers something, a confession, a plea.

I nod… because I understand.

Time is slipping away.

The silence from my family is too sharp. It’s not peace.

It’s a pause before a strike.

Like his—too quiet, too still.

“They’re watching,” he whispers.

---