“You never really forgot,” I whispered, tracing a finger down the line of his abs. “You just let me pretend.”
He didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to.
His hand slid down my spine, stopping just above the curve of my ass. “And now that it’s not pretend? Now that the dust has settled... What do you want?”
I lifted my head. Met his gaze. No hiding in it now—no mask, no ploy, no veil of manipulation. Just me. Just him.
“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Not all of it. But I know I wantthis.Whateverthisis. For now.”
It wasn’t submission. Wasn’t forgiveness. Wasn’t freedom. But it was real.
And somehow, that was enough for him.
“For now,” he echoed, brushing hair back from my face, voice still rough from where I'd left him. “I can work with that.”
We stayed tangled in the afterglow, our bodies humming with the residue of friction and fire. We talked in half-thoughts, let the silence do the heavy lifting. When the flames in the hearth gave way to embers, he helped me dress, every movement patient and deliberate—fingertips grazing skin like a reverent afterthought.
Not possessive. Not gentle.
Earned.
At the door, I hesitated.
Beyond it waited the version of him I was supposed to fear. The version of me that was still a prisoner. That knew better.
"What happens now?" I asked, echoing the words I’d spoken the night this all began.
Rafe didn’t flinch. “That depends on you. On what you want next. What you’re ready for.”
“And if I’m not sure?”
He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it was instinct. His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw. “Then we figure it out together. No pressure. No lies. Just the truth. Day by day.”
It shouldn’t have felt like freedom. But somehow it did.
“Alright,” I said. “Day by day.”
He walked me back in silence, his hand a steady weight at the small of my back—not a grip. A tether.
When we reached my room, he hesitated.
His gaze skimmed over my face like he was memorizing it. Like he hadn’t already.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he said, voice hushed.
“Goodnight, Rafe.”
I rose onto my toes and kissed him, unthinking, uncalculated. Not a transaction. Just a choice.
Then I slipped inside and shut the door.
I stood there, breathless, fingers still pressed to the wood. My lips still tingled from the taste of him. My thighs still ached.
And yet, something colder crept in behind the heat.
Because what happened between us—what I let happen, what Iwanted—wasn’t freedom.
It was a shift.
