I never thought I'd see Jesse like this.
On his back.
Eyes open.
Breathing shallow and controlled.
Hands at his sides like he wasn't sure if he should hold on or let go.
"You okay?" I asked, voice low, soft.
He nodded once.
But his body said otherwise.
Tense. Braced. Like letting me touch him was more terrifying than letting me go.
---
I crawled over him slowly.
Straddled his hips.
Kissed the curve of his throat where stubble met skin.
Whispered:
"Tell me to stop if it's too much."
He didn't.
He just whispered back, "Don't stop at all."
---
I didn't rush.
Didn't take what I wanted.
I offered.
Kisses to his chest.
Fingers down his sides.
Soft words that said, You're allowed to be taken care of too.
He closed his eyes when I finally touched him—gently, like I was holding something fragile and holy.
And when I slid down his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses along every scar, I felt him melt beneath me.
Not just sexually.
Emotionally.
---
When he came, it wasn't with a growl or a command.
It was with a gasp.
A quiet, wrecked sound like he hadn't realized how tightly he'd been wound until now.
I crawled back up, curled against his chest, and held him through it.
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then:
"No one's ever touched me like that."
I kissed the center of his chest.
"No one's ever seen you like I do."
---
The next morning, he made breakfast with no shirt on.
Hair still a mess from sleep. Skin warm and flushed.
He caught me staring and smirked.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just trying to burn this into memory."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're already memorized, brat."
---
But outside?
Outside, someone was watching.
I saw it when I left for work.
A car parked two blocks down.
Windows tinted.
Still.
Too still.
And for the first time in weeks…
I felt the old fear creep back in.
Because love can survive the bedroom.
But the world?
The world's not always so kind.