Neither of us is pretending anymore.
Stefan
Kieran lay in my arms, and I listened to his breathing that had settled into a steadier rhythm.
I was aware ofeverything.The weight of him against me, the warmth of his skin. I loved the way his head fit against my neck as if it had always belonged there, his hand resting on my chest.
What just happened?
I hadn’t recognised myself.
The man who’d made love to him? That wasn’t me.
There’d been no restraint, no careful awareness of where the line was or how close I was to crossing it. Just the feel of him. The unfilteredneedfor him.
I exhaled slowly, moving my hand absently against his back, grounding myself in the familiar feel of his skin.
What unsettled me wasn’t what had happened—it was howeasilyit had happened, how naturally, as if that version of me had been there all along, unobserved, unacknowledged.
Until now.
Until him.
That was the part I couldn’t ignore. Not the loss of control or the context of it, but that it had beenhim. What I couldn’t get past was how much I’d wanted it. Even now, the pair of us spent and clarity returning, I could still feel it. More than that, I wanted to experience it again.
I’d chosen not to walk away from whatever this was between us. That had been a deliberate decision.
This was not, and now I was beginning to understand the cost of that choice.
I opened my eyes and gazed at him, at the ease in his expression, the absence of tension, the quiet certainty of someone who trusted me without question. I traced the line ofhis back, and he stirred, soft noises leaving him before he slipped deeper into whatever velvet blackness had finally taken him.
I stilled.
That trust was not something I could take lightly, not something I could engage with halfway.
I’m in way too deep.
What shocked me was I wasn’t sure if I wanted to extricate myself, or go deeper still.
Chapter Twenty-Three
September 8
Kieran
I satat Stefan’s piano, a notebook open on my lap, the pencil resting loosely between my fingers.
I hadn’t meant to write anything, not at first, but the music had come anyway, not fully formed, just fragments, a refrain that returned, again and again, shifting slightly each time, as if it were trying to settle into something more certain.
I wrote it down, listened to it in my head, then adjusted it.
Stefan’s presence filled the space in a way I couldn’t ignore, not intrusive but constant, like a rhythm underneath everything else. He hadn’t moved much. One hand rested against his chin, the other on the keyboard, his eyes focused on the screen, lost in concentration, unaware I was watching him.
Or maybe he is, and he’s choosing not to acknowledge it.
Once breakfast had been finished, he’d declared his holiday—Folsom—was officially over, and that meant he had work to do. I’d offered to leave, but he was happy for me to stay.
And then the music had begun in my head, and I’d given myself over to it.