"Red?" I shift closer, trying to see what she's reading.
I worry about my girl.
Her voice trembles as she continues.
She tries so hard to be strong, to let no one see her hurt. Today I found her in the garden, crying over a photo of her parents. She said she's forgetting what their voices sound like. My brave, beautiful girl, carrying so much on those young shoulders. Ares found her there later—didn't say a word, just sat with her until she stopped shaking. He's got a good heart, that one, when he lets it show.
Something breaks in her expression, and before I can think, I'm pulling her into my arms. She comes willingly, pressing her face into my neck as tears fall.
"I miss her so much," she whispers against my skin. "Every day, I think of something I want to tell her, ask her..."
My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "She was proud of you, Red. So damn proud."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw it every time she looked at you." I pull back just enough to see her face, to brush away tears with my thumb. "The way you built your career from nothing. She knew you'd survive anything life threw at you."
Her eyes meet mine, luminous with tears, and something electric crackles in the air between us.
"Ares..." My name falls from her lips like a prayer, like a memory, like every whispered moment we ever stole behind garden walls. The sound shoots straight through me, igniting something primal and desperate that's been simmering since I first saw her in that club.
I should move away. Should remember all the reasons this is wrong—the press, our history, the powder keg of secrets we're sitting on. Instead, I find myself drawn closer, like she's gravity and I'm finally done fighting the pull.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper, my lips a breath from hers. But God, I hope she doesn't. The scent of her fills my lungs, making my head spin with want and memory.
Her answer comes not in words but in action—she closes that final distance between us, and fifteen years of longing explode into this one perfect moment.
Her lips are soft, hesitant at first, like she's testing waters she's not sure she should wade into. Then something breaks loose, and suddenly we're kissing each other like we're drowning and the other is air—desperate, essential, the only thing keeping us alive in this moment.
My hands find her hair, silky strands wrapping around my fingers as her grip on my shoulders tightens. The journal hits the floor with a forgotten thud as she shifts into my lap, fitting against me like she never left.
"Red," I groan against her mouth as she presses closer, every curve of her body aligning perfectly with mine. She tastes like coffee and possibility and something uniquely her that makes my blood sing. Each brush of her tongue against mine sends electricity through my body, short-circuiting every rational thought.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, and coherent thinking becomes impossible. I trail kisses down the column of her throat, addicted to the little gasps and whimpers she can't hold back. Each sound she makes drives me higher, desperate for more.
"We should—" Her words cut off on a moan as I find that sensitive spot below her ear, the one that always made her melt. "We should stop."
"Should we?" I raise my head to look at her, and the sight nearly stops my heart. Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips swollen from our kisses, eyes dark with want. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"No," she breathes, and then she's kissing me again, deep and desperate. My hands slide under her top, finding warm skin, and she shivers against me, pressing closer. The sound she makes—somewhere between a whimper and my name—challenges what remains of my self-control, pushing me to the edge of reason.
The journals lie scattered around us, their secrets forgotten in this moment of pure need. Nothing exists but us—the world beyond her loft fades away like watercolors in rain. The kiss transforms into something deeper, rawer. Years of denied passion ignite between us, but there's a new complexity here, a richness that wasn't present in our teenage fumbling. Like aged wine, time has only made this connection more intoxicating.
"Red," I breathe her nickname against her lips. She answers by catching my bottom lip between her teeth, the sharp sting followed by the soft sweep of her tongue. The contrast pulls a groan from deep in my chest.
"Tell me you don't want this as much as I do." The words come out rough, desperate.
Her head falls back, offering more of herself to me. The trust in that simple gesture makes my chest ache. "I hate that I still want you," she gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "Hate that after everything, you can still make me feel like this."
"Like what?" I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, needing to hear the truth between us. My hands grip her hips, pulling her against the hard evidence of what she does to me. The friction draws a whimper from her lips that shoots straight through me.
"Like you're still mine." The admission breaks in her throat, her eyes shining with unshed tears that reflect the morning light. "Like I never stopped being yours."
Something possessive roars to life inside me.
"You were always mine," I growl against the sensitive skin of her throat, marking her with my teeth. The sight of my mark blooming on her pale skin satisfies something deep and primitive inside me. "And I was always yours. Even when I tried not to be."
She pulls back, her artist's hands framing my face. The vulnerability in her eyes steals my breath—there's my Red, the girl who used to look at me like I hung the moon, now a woman who's seen both heaven and hell. "Prove it," she challenges, her voice rough with emotion and need.
