She’s spread out like a fucking starfish. Blankets kicked off, tits half out of the tank she never wears a bra with, and her leg flung over mine like she owns me—and she does.
There’s glitter on her cheek, probably from one of those sleep masks she insists don’t transfer.
Liar.
Her breathing is soft, her hands curled on my chest like she never wants to let go. And hell, I’d never let her.
Since we left the disaster of Los Angeles behind and carved out something steady in a world that’s never given her solid ground, in that time, I’ve watched her build herself back, piece by fragile piece. She had to relive the worst of it—file a restraining order, and walk into a courtroom with shaking hands while I stood next to her and promised her she’d never have to do it alone again.
We made damn sure the world knew what kind of man her father was. He lost everything—his board seats, his reputation, the empire he cared about more than his daughter.
That’s what that piece of shit gets.
Three months of living with her, and loving her every second of the day. Three months of hair in my sink, iced coffee cups on every surface, and her loud, unapologetic existence shoved into every corner of my quiet life. She sings in the shower, argues with the thermostat, and hogs the covers like it’s a competitive sport.
I wouldn’t survive a day without her.
She’s stronger than she thinks. After everything—her father, the overdose, the way she clawed her way back from that edge—she’s still standing.
Grief didn’t leave her. It won’t. It just settled beside her like an old companion, quiet but never far. I see it in her eyes sometimes, the way it lingers in silence. The truth is, I understand it—more than I wish I did.
It’s been almost ten years since I lost my mama, and some days it still hits me like it’s fresh. You don’t get over it. You grow through it. You learn to laugh with it, sitting in the room. You find someone whose grief speaks the same language, and you hold on.
She’s still learning how to carry hers, but we do it together now. That’s the part no one tells you about healing, sometimes it doesn’t mean letting go. Sometimes it means holding each other through the weight.
I’ve seen her cry on the kitchen floor, knees drawn to her chest, her whole body trembling like it might fall apart if I let go. I’ve seen the way her fingers fidget when she’s spiraling, picking at her cuticles until they bleed. I’ve watched her stare out the window for hours, lost in some memory she won’t say out loud. She flinches at sudden sounds, sleeps with the light on, and keeps her phone on silent but checks it every two minutes, just in case.
Yet, she still manages to smile at the stupidest jokes on her worst days. Still rolls her eyes at me like she’s not fallingapart. I’ve held her when she couldn’t breathe, kissed her when she was too tired to speak, and tucked her hair behind her ear when she wouldn’t look at me. I’ve watched her fight to get out of bed when the weight of everything tried to keep her down.
People think strength looks loud. But Catalina? She’s strong in quiet ways. Loving her through it—loving her with it—is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
She stirs now, lashes fluttering. “You’re staring at me again,” she says, voice thick with sleep and accusation.
I grin. “Can you blame me? You snore like a chainsaw and still look hot as fuck.”
She groans, flopping onto her back. “You’re so in love with me. It’s embarrassing.”
“Deeply. Pathetically.”
She stares at the ceiling. “Ugh. I just remembered I dropped a shit load of money on a bookstore I never opened because my cuntbag father decided to kidnap me back to L.A. Loved that for me.”
I hum, dragging my fingers down her thigh. “Get dressed. I’ve got something for you.”
She side-eyes me. “I’m not cleaning up horse shit today, no fucking thank you.”
I shift, and pinning her wrists above her head, as I grind my cock against her bare pussy. Her eyes go wide.
“Keep running your mouth, baby. I’ll stuff it full of my cock so fast, you won’t even remember what sarcasm is.”
She dramatically gasps, throwing her legs wide. “Oh no,” she says, voice high-pitched and breathless with mock horror. “Anything but that. Please, sir, not your giant cowboy dick! How will I ever survive?”
I laugh, grabbing her throat gently, just enough to tilther chin up, and kiss the corner of her mouth. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
“You love it,” she whispers, biting her lip.
“God help me, I do.”
I slam into her in one brutal, claiming thrust, burying myself deep inside of her while she moans like she wasn’t just mocking me.
