I stay inside her while the aftershocks roll through both of us, her pussy still fluttering around my cock. Her fingers loosen on my shoulders, her breathing ragged against my ear.
I roll to the side and pull her with me. She curls into me immediately, her leg thrown over mine, her hand on my chest, her hair spread across my shoulder. My cock slips out of her and she makes a small sound at the loss.
"Nash."
"Yeah."
"I just want you to know that the sex in our bed in our house is significantly better than the sex in the tattoo chair, which was significantly better than the sex on your desk. Which was significantly better than the sex at Vesper, and that was already life-ruining. So basically you've created an escalating situation that cannot be sustained, and I need you to know that I hold you personally responsible for whatever happens next."
"What happens next?"
"I don't know. But it's going to have to be spectacular because the bar is unreasonable."
I pull her closer. Press my mouth to her hair. My hand rests on her hip. Her fingers trace circles on my chest.
"Nash."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for choosing me."
I tilt her chin up. Kiss her like we have all the time in the world.
"Every time," I say.
She presses her face into my chest. Her breathing slows. Her body goes heavy against mine, the particular weight of a woman who trusts someone enough to fall asleep on them.
I look at the ceiling. Our ceiling. The house we picked together, the bed we share, the hallway hung with her art in frames I built.
The woman on my chest with red lipstick smudged across her mouth and my name tattooed into her compass rose.
I spent years containing everything. Holding the perimeter. Watching rooms from walls. Pressing my thumb against an elastic band and counting the cost of every minute I was too late, every person I couldn't protect, every feeling I wouldn't let through.
Ruby walked in, and the yard got louder. And I let it.
Her hand curls against my chest in her sleep, fingers resting over my heartbeat like she found her place even unconscious. The same heartbeat she recorded at three in the morning and tattooed onto my arm. The same one that beats for her now, steady, unhurried, the rhythm of a man who finally stopped running the perimeter and came inside.
I press my mouth to her hair and close my eyes.
Home.