Her breath quickens when I slide my palm down her side, and I pause, waiting. She meets my gaze and nods. That nod hits me harder than any moan ever could.
I keep going, removing our clothes, listening with my hands, my mouth, and every quiet sound she gives me. The room fills with heat, soft noises, and the steady creak of the mattress beneath us.
I whisper her name like a prayer. She whispers mine like it belongs to her.
When she shudders, her nails digging into my shoulders, I hold her tighter, mouth at her ear. “I got you,” I murmur. “I’m right here.”
Syvannah turns her face into my neck, shaking, and I feel the moment she lets go of something inside herself, something old and terrified that used to whisper she wasn’t allowed to want this.
Something in me goes steel-solid with it, the kind of vow I don’t speak yet because I’m too busy proving it with my hands and my mouth and my patience.
When we finally settle, the world feels softer around the edges. The air is warm. The sheets are tangled. Peanut hasmoved closer, a quiet weight curled near Syvannah’s thigh, purring like a tiny engine.
Syvannah lies across my chest like she belongs there, cheek pressed to my skin, one leg thrown over mine. Her fingers trace the scar along my ribs, slow and thoughtful, like she’s reading it.
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, breathing her in, feeling my heartbeat steady under her touch. “You still okay?” I ask quietly.
Syvannah lifts her head just enough to look at me. Her eyes are bright. Peaceful. Not gone, not distant, but here. She nods. “I feel good.”
The word sounds foreign in her mouth, like she’s testing it, like she’s learning she’s allowed to say it and mean it. It hits me right in the chest anyway.
I tighten my arm around her and press a kiss to her forehead. “Good,” I murmur, voice rough with relief. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Syvannah’s mouth curves into a sleepy smile, and she settles back down, fingers still tracing that scar like she’s promising me she isn’t scared of the parts of me that used to hurt.
“I love you, Syvannah Blake,” I confess.
Syvannah lifts her head, her eyes wide in surprise. “I love you, too, Ethan Cole.”
We fall asleep tangled together, her head tucked under my chin, my arm heavy across her waist like I’m holding the world in place. Peanut sleeps near Syvannah’s knees, a warm little lump that purrs in her dreams.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of the compound lights through the curtains, and Syvannah’s breathing stays deep and unguarded, the kind of sleep you only give someone when you trust they’ll keep the monsters outside.
I lie here, listening to her breathe, feeling the weight of her across my chest, and it hits me how simple this is. How impossible it used to feel.
Her fingers are curled around my chest as if she fell asleep mid-claim, and every so often she shifts, rubbing her cheek against my skin like she’s making sure I’m real.
In the middle of the night, she stirs, not fully awake, and her hand finds my ribs, palm flattening right over the scar. The moment she touches it, my body goes rigid out of instinct, the old reflex that expects pain to follow, but she doesn’t press. She doesn’t flinch. She just holds it like she’s keeping it safe, and in her sleep-rough voice, she murmurs, “Still here.”
My throat tightens so hard it burns. I kiss the top of her head. “Always,” I whisper back.
Syvannah sighs like that’s the only answer she needed, then settles deeper into me, warm and trusting.
Morning comes with the scent of coffee drifting up the stairs and the distant clang of tools in the garage. Sunlight spills in thin gold lines across the bed. Syvannah blinks awake slow, hair a mess, lashes thick with sleep, and when she looks at me, she smiles like she’s remembering something good before her brain even turns on fully.
“You staring again?” she asks, voice scratchy.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “It’s becoming a habit.”
Syvannah rolls onto her side, eyes soft. “I don’t mind.”
Peanut chooses that moment to crawl onto Syvannah’s chest and headbutt her chin, demanding attention like she’s collecting payment for emotional support services.
Syvannah laughs, scratching behind Peanut’s ear. “Good morning to you, too, boss.” Peanut meows like she’s offended Syvannah ever slept without her consent.
I swing my legs out of bed, grab my jeans, and Syvannah watches me from the pillows like she’s tracking every movement. Not fear. Not suspicion. Just… closeness.
“You got plans today?” she asks.