Not right away.
I stay there, holding her, breathing her in like I need to make sure she’s real and not something my head made up.
Her arms are still around me. Legs wrapped tight.
Like she’s not ready to let go either.
Good.
Because neither am I.
My forehead drops to her shoulder, my chest still rising too fast, heart pounding like I just ran a marathon instead of having hot sex with my woman in a public place.
“I got you,” I mutter, more to myself than anything.
I tighten my arms around her for a second longer than necessary.
Grounding.
Anchoring.
Letting the moment settle instead of rushing past it like I would with anyone else.
Christ. That thought alone tells me everything.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Hair a mess.
Eyes soft and a little dazed, like she’s still catching up to what just happened.
She looks so— fuck.
She looks like mine.
The word hits again right in the chest. Harder this time.
I love this woman. I am in love with her.
I don’t say it out loud.
Not yet. But I don’t fight it either.
“Stay right there,” I tell her, voice low, steadier now.
I move carefully, grabbing tissues, taking care of the small things—making sure she’s comfortable, making sure she’s okay.
Not rushed or careless.
She watches me like she doesn’t quite know what to make of that part. Like she expected me to bolt.
Not stay and do this. Not care for her—but the thing is, I do. I really care.
I adjust her dress, smooth it down, make sure everything’s right before helping her off the counter.
My hands linger at her waist a second longer than they should.