It wasn’t a mistake.
It was a release.
Of grief. Of guilt. Of all the words they couldn’t find until their mouths weren’t speaking them anymore. Adair took his time. Let his hands speak for him. Let his mouth say all the apologies he didn’t have the words for anymore.
Sabine let herself unravel. She moaned into his skin. Clutched his back. His shoulders.His name.And when it happened—when they lost themselves entirely—there were no words. Just a rhythm they hadn’t moved in for years.
Bodies trembling.
Breath shaking.
Earth quaking.
Her name a prayer.
His name a homecoming.
The room was thick with heat, only the sounds of breath and want and memory. Adair moved over her like a man who had been starving. Like she was the altar, and he was just trying to remember how to pray.
Sabine’s hands found his shoulders, then his jaw, then the back of his neck like she was grounding herself in the present and the past all at once. He kissed her again. Not rushed. Not commanding. Just deep. Deep enough to make her forget what year it was, deep enough to remind her of every quiet morning and late-night conversation that once lived between them. His mouth moved down her body, slow and sure, and when he reached her waist, he looked up—not to ask, but to witness.
To make sure she was still there. Still with him.
She was.
She arched for him.Welcomedhim.
Sabine's breath trembled as he explored her like she was made of gold and fire all at once. He didn’t just touch her like he wanted her. He touched her like he missed her. Like every inch was a memory he needed to relearn with his mouth.
And when he entered her, it wasn’t just flesh meeting flesh. It was time folding in on itself. The past and present merging into something that neither of them could name, but both of them clung to. Her body opened to him like it had been waiting for this—achingfor this.
Sabine gasped, her hands tightening around him. Adair froze, his forehead pressed against hers, whispering nothing and everything.
It wasn’t hard or fast.
It was intentional.
Every roll of his hips was a confession. Every kiss along her throat was a promise. And Sabine…she let herself feel it. All of it. The pain. The pleasure. The rage. The years. She cried without tears, moaned without shame. Her legs wrapped around him like she didn’t know where he ended and she began. Her nails dug into his back, and she whispered his name the way a drowning woman calls out to the shore.
They didn’t rush the ending.
They built it.
Broke it.
Rebuilt it again.
And when they both finally let go—bodies trembling, limbs slick, eyes wide open—there was no sound except the storm between their hearts.
Adair didn’t pull away. He stayed there, inside her, holding her face, her hips, her breath. Letting her cry if she needed to. Letting her leave if she wanted to.
But she didn’t cry.
She didn’t leave.
Not right away.
They lay in the dark, tangled in sweat and the scent of sex and questions and something that didn’t have a name yet. Her head rested on his chest; one leg draped over his. His fingers brushed along her spine.