“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Calmer.
I nod, cheek still resting on the glass.
He pulls out with a groan, slow and wet, and I feel him slide his hand between my legs and finish there.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
I shiver.
He turns me around, one hand behind my back, the other under my thighs to lift me again. My legs part on instinct, loose and pliant, wrapping around his waist as he carries me across the room.
He sits down in the armchair, settling me on his lap, my back against his chest. His arms wrap around me, firm and grounding, and his mouth presses a kiss to the side of my face.
“You were perfect,” he says, voice quiet.
I melt back into him, too wrung out to speak, body still trembling slightly from the intensity.
He lets the silence stretch for a moment. “You know that window’s never going to be the same again.”
That gets a soft sound out of me—half laugh, half breathless groan.
“You said not to move,” I manage to murmur.
“I did,” he says. “And you listened.”
His fingers stroke lazily over my thigh. “Which means next time, I’ll give you even more.”
EPILOGUE: LILA
MONTHS LATER
I wake up because someone is staring at me.
Not in the creepy way, not in the “you left a window open” way, but in the way that makes the air feel warm even before I open my eyes. I blink once, then twice, and I find Ethan sitting in the chair by the bassinet, bare feet on the rug, shirt half-buttoned like he got dressed using pure vibes and rage.
He doesn’t look tired. He looks awake.
He looks like he’s been awake.
His gaze is fixed on the tiny bundle in the bassinet, and his expression is so focused it’s almost funny. I clear my throat. “Sir.”
He doesn’t move. “She breathed weird.”
I stare at him. “She’s a newborn.”
“She breathed weird,” he repeats, like I’m the one being unreasonable.
I push myself up slowly, because my body is still doing that postpartum thing where it thinks a simple movement is a group project. The hospital room is quiet except for the soft hum of a machine and the occasional tiny snort from our daughter, who is currently making the face of someone unimpressed with the whole world.
I lean over the bassinet and check her. She’s fine. She’s pink and warm and sleepy, her lips pursed like she’s already judging our decisions.
“She’s fine,” I whisper.
Ethan finally looks at me, and the moment his eyes meet mine, something in his face changes. The hard lines soften, but the intensity stays. He stands, crosses to the bedside, and kisses my forehead like he’s counting me too.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod then exhale because that question still hits me in the chest. “I’m okay.”