"Fucking hell," I croaked. "You trying to finish me off for good?"
He looked up, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and grinned. "Got a little carried away. Sue me." He flopped down beside me, head pillowed on my stomach, arm draped across my hip like he was reclaiming territory. I threaded my fingers through his hair and traced lazy circles on his scalp, half-lost in the afterglow.
I didn't have a plan, just a raw, compulsive need to see him come apart too. I slid my hand lower, mapping out the curve of his ass, and he made a sound, nearly a gasp. He was hard, had been since he woke, and I wanted him needy, desperate, and out of control like he'd done to me.
I nudged at his hip, rolling him over onto his back, and Matthew didn't fight it; he just sprawled out, lazy and loose, andnot a tiny bit self-conscious. He looked up at me with an open, hopeful expression.
His cock was already leaking, the head dark and wet against his stomach. I watched his chest—every exhale shaky and every inhale making his ribs flare like wings.
He fixed his gaze on me, tracking every flick of my wrist, every graze of my knuckles against his skin. When I wrapped my hand around him, his entire body shuddered as he growled, "Fuck."
"Yeah?" I bent down and pressed my lips to the sweat-slicked center of his chest. "You want me to stop?"
He shook his head, and I knew he wouldn't last. I could tell by the way his belly sucked in with each ragged breath, and the heat building under my palm. I played with the pace, slow then fast, squeezing just to the edge, then letting him collapse back, over and over until his knees drew up and his heels pushed hard into the mattress.
He came with a choked-off whimper, body arching up so sharply I had to brace his thigh to keep him from flipping us off the mattress. It hit him all at once—no dramatics, just the white-hot shot landing on his chest.
He sagged back, slack followed by a post-orgasmic tremor, and then he lay there, blinking at the ceiling. Seconds later, he was on me again, not for sex but for the simple pleasure of skin against skin. "You're not going anywhere today, right?"
I shook my head. I had no plans that didn't involve Matthew.
I traced a lazy spiral around his navel, feeling the subtle tremor in his belly every time I hit a ticklish spot. He tried to suppress it, but his body betrayed him, shivering and twitching under my fingers. "You're a masochist. You know that, right?"
He looked up at me, brown eyes wide and guileless. "Only for you."
"Do we stay?"
I wasn't asking about the apartment, Seattle, or the immediate future. I was asking whether this was real enough to risk believing in.
His answer came without hesitation, his voice steady with the same certainty he used when declaring someone stable enough for transport.
"We build."
Two words that reframed everything. He believed we had a foundation solid enough to support architecture. For Matthew, we were worth the investment of time, hope, and all the dangerous luxuries that came with choosing permanence over survival.
I pressed my face against his chest. Matthew was offering me the revolutionary concept of planning beyond next week.
"What do we build?"
"Everything. Whatever we want. Whatever feels right."
Love was a luxury I'd trained myself not to seek. In my former life, attachment meant leverage, and leverage meant vulnerability that could be weaponized by anyone clever enough to identify the pressure points. I'd watched good people destroyed by the simple crime of caring about someone.
Lying with Matthew, his breathing deep and unguarded, those concerns were like artifacts from someone else's life. He wasn't gathering intelligence or building files for future exploitation. He was simply present, offering himself without conditions.
"I love you, you know."
The confession escaped as I exhaled. Matthew's breathing changed, but he didn't move. His expression looked like he was absorbing something significant.
For a heartbeat, silence filled the space where I expected a response, and I braced for the inevitable complications that followed my admission.
When he spoke, Matthew's voice was warm and sure. "I've known. But I'll never get tired of hearing it."
Relief flooded through me. "How long have you known?"
"Since you chose to stay instead of trying to flee. You looked at me like I was worth the risk, and that's not something you can fake. I love you, too."
Matthew's thumb brushed the curve of my jaw, and I no longer flinched from being touched like something fragile.
