The world was still.
Charlotte’s Master Bedroom, July 16th, 7:46 p.m.
The sun had all but disappeared behind the trees when Charlotte took his hand and led him upstairs. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and rain, drifting through the open windows, warm, soft and alive. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that smell. Missed feeling something that wasn’t monitored, recorded, restrained.
The bedroom was quiet. Simple. Familiar in a way that made his throat ache. Hardwood floors. Pale sheets. A ceiling fan turning slow circles above them like time had stopped, or maybe just finally caught up.
Charlotte stood barefoot by the bed, turning toward him. The light hit her in that way it always did—low, golden, like it was trying to memorize her too. Her eyes were darker in the dimness but steady. Not demanding. Just there. And behind them… something more than longing.
Home.
Alex stood still. Watching her. Wanting her. But waiting.
Tension coiled beneath his skin. Not the kind that made him sharp. The kind that made him hesitate. His body hadn’t been his own for months. Injected. Monitored. Pushed past limits. Rewritten in ways he didn’t fully understand.
What if it didn’t work?
What if he couldn’t?
She stepped closer, and he thought maybe she could see it on his face, everything he wasn’t saying. The quiet panic beneath the calm.
Charlotte didn’t speak. She just reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it, slow and gentle. Her fingers brushed his skin. He let her take it off. His breath hitched as her hands slid over his shoulders, down his arms, anchoring herself in the feel of him. Not a patient. Not a weapon. Him.
“You came back to me,” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “I’m still figuring out what came back.”
She looked at him then—not pitying, not cautious. Just present. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”
He reached for her tentatively, hands settling at her waist. She guided him with no pressure, just quiet confidence, lifting her shirt and letting it fall to the floor. He stared for a beat, taking her in, feeling her warmth in the air between them. Not just beauty—something earned. Trusted. Known.
“You never stopped being my home,” he said.
She stepped in, her skin pressing to his, soft and warm. He kissed her—testing. Her mouth met his like she’d been waiting but not rushing. Like survival was in the softness, not the urgency.
As they undressed, he moved carefully, conscious of every scar, every moment he didn’t flinch. She was gentle, unhurried. When they reached the bed, she didn’t pull him down—she led him, guiding him with touches that told him exactly what she needed and that he was enough.
She didn’t rush him.
She didn’t need to.
Charlotte simply shifted closer, her presence doing more to steady him than anything else had in weeks. Alex lay back against the pillows, uncertain for only a moment, but shetouched his chest with the flat of her palm and leaned in, her lips brushing his in a kiss that said I’m here. You’re safe.
Her hand slid gently down his torso, not with urgency but with care, checking in with every inch of him. When she reached for him, she did so like she was learning a new version of the man she’d always loved. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just guided him with a patience that quieted every doubt still hiding in the corners of his mind.
He lay beside her, breath shallow. She kissed his jaw, his collarbone, her hands running over him like she was memorizing every piece. When he hesitated, when he felt his body resist—she didn’t react with frustration or concern. She simply shifted closer, wrapped her hand gently around him, coaxing him with patience and care. No pressure. No fear. Just her.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her lips at his neck. “You’re okay. Just let go.”
And slowly, he did.
His body responded to her, not out of performance, but with trust. The tension eased from his shoulders as arousal bloomed, not from expectation but from connection. Charlotte straddled him, guided him, and brought him into her body with a soft gasp and her fingers tight in his hair. He buried his face in her neck as he moved with her, inside her, and felt the shame he didn’t know he’d been carrying start to burn away.
She moaned into his shoulder as he found a rhythm, slow and measured. This wasn’t about reclaiming masculinity. It was about being wanted. Being safe. Being known.
He rolled with her. Every time she whispered his name, every time she rolled her hips toward him, every time she gasped and tightened around him, he believed he was still here.
Still Alex.
