I reach for his hand, leading him to the small bed pressed against the wall—one of the cabin’s few comforts. Thorne watches me with wide eyes, as if I’m asking him to navigate a wildfire with a map made of thorns.
I lean forward and kiss him softly.
His hesitation falls away, and suddenly, he is everywhere. His hands are rough and calloused, so gentle against my skin. He kisses me slowly, as if exploring, memorizing each breath and curve.
We sit on the bed, facing each other. He takes my face in his hands, staring into my eyes.
“Clara,” he whispers, voice gravel and soft earth.
“Thorne,” I breathe back.
It’s enough.
It’s everything.
Clothes become unneeded. They scatter to the floor.
He is careful, so careful, as if I were a rare bloom that might crumble at the slightest touch. He hangs back, as though waiting for guidance in this unfamiliar indoor space, but I am patient.
“I don’t need poetry,” I tell him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I need you.”
He laces his fingers with mine, pinning them above us, and then... then he stops hesitating.
There is no witty banter, no jokes, only gentle urgency as we learn each other, find each other, become one.
He moves with purpose.
Slow.
Then fast.
I grasp at him, nails digging in just to feel how real he is, how alive he is.
Not hidden in the shadows, not bound to roots, but with me, whole.
He growls my name, and I do not recognize my own voice in response.
In this moment, nothing exists outside the two of us.
Fire builds in my veins, and his breath comes faster, harsher. Words are lost to us, but we don’t need them.
I gasp and tremble and cry out.
He follows, a soft moan escaping him, and he rests his forehead against mine, panting.
Still connected.
Still holding hands.
For the first time, I know, we are not almost-goodbye.
We are rooted.
Entangled.
Home.
I whisper that word, and he kisses me again—sweetly, tenderly.
