“I know,” she whispers.
I lay her down on her bed like the place is sacred because, for her, maybe it is. Not pure. Not untouched. Something better. We’ve been here a dozen times in the last month.
Chosen.
I ask because I will always ask.
She answers because she knows I will listen.
And when I move over her, when she opens beneath me with a soft sound that nearly ruins me, when I slide home and her hands grip my back, there is no goodbye in her eyes.
Only staying.
Not forever promised.
Not marriage.
Not property.
Not a patch.
Staying for tonight because she can leave tomorrow if she wants.
That makes every second worth more.
She bites my shoulder again when she gets too loud, and I laugh into her neck because apparently that is our thing now. She laughs too, breathless, then gasps when I move deeper, and the sound of her pleasure inside her own home is enough tomake me believe in every dirty miracle Kentucky ever tried to hide.
I love her.
The thought hits in the middle of it.
Hard as a fist and twice as dangerous.
I don’t say it.
Not yet.
Not because I’m a coward, though I’m plenty of that. When she comes apart under me, she says my name like she ain’t afraid of who hears it inside herself anymore.
I follow her down, face buried against her shoulder, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in hers.
After, we lie in the quiet.
Her head on my chest.
My fingers moving through her hair, careful near the tattoo.
This is the part where old me would make a joke and get out of the bed before feeling started demanding rent.
New me stays.
Terrible development.
“Derby?” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“You still awake?”