This is a choice. Deliberate. Eyes open.
I let her lead. My hands stay where they are, one in her hair, one on her back. I don't grab or deepen the kiss. Just accept what she is offering and wait for whatever comes next.
She pulls back, voice unsteady. "I don't want to think anymore tonight."
"Then don't."
She kisses me again, harder this time, her fingers curling into my shirt and fisting the fabric. I match her intensity without pushing beyond it, following her pace as my heart slams against my ribs hard enough that she must feel it.
Her hands work at my buttons, and I help her strip the shirt off. Her palms land flat on my chest and move across the muscle and scars with deliberate focus, learning and mapping the ways my body has changed.
"You're different." Her fingers trace a scar along my ribs. Shrapnel, Kandahar, a story I'll tell her someday if she asks. "Harder."
"So are you."
Her breath catches at that. Then she stands, extending her hand toward me.
I take it. Let her pull me to my feet, let her fingers intertwine with mine as she guides me toward the stairs.
She's leading me to her bedroom. Not the guest room where I've been sleeping. Hers.
My heartbeat picks up, steady rhythm accelerating into something less controlled. We've been together twice now, but not like this. Not in her space, not with the whole afternoon ahead of us, not after she's handed me every broken piece of herself and watched me hold them without cutting myself.
The first step creaks under our combined weight. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't look back. Just climbs with her hand warm in mine, pulling me into territory I've never entered with permission.
Yatto.Finally.
The bedroom door swings open. Afternoon sunlight pours through sheer curtains, throwing soft golden patterns across the hardwood floor and unmade bed.
The sheets are tangled, pillows askew. In three years of college, she never once left her bed unmade. The fact that it is wrecked now tells me exactly what today cost her.
She releases my hand and turns to face me.
"Cole." Her voice wavers. "This is... different. Having you in here."
"We can go to the guest room if—"
"No." She shakes her head. "I want you here. In my space. I just..." A breath shudders out of her, her shoulders dropping. "I need you to know that I'm choosing this. Not running from something. Choosing."
"I know."
Her fingers find the top button of her blouse. They tremble slightly as she works it free.
"May I?"
She stops. Looks at me. Relief flickers across her face, and she drops her hands to her sides.
I close the distance between us. One button at a time, slow and deliberate. Each one a question. Each revealed inch of skin an answer she is trusting me with.
The blouse falls open. Plain white cotton bra underneath.
"I wasn't expecting—" Her cheeks flush. "This isn't exactly—"
"Angelina." I catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet my eyes. "I don't care what you're wearing under your clothes. I care that you're letting me take them off."
I slide the blouse off her shoulders. It pools on the floor behind her. The bra clasp takes seconds to work open. Cotton straps fall down her arms.
Her arms start to cross over her chest, then stop. Her fingers curl at her sides instead, trembling with the effort of keeping them there.