His body was still trembling faintly beneath my hands.
Not from fear.
Not from pain.
But from something rawer. Softer.
Sated.
I watched the rise and fall of his chest—unsteady, flushed, and glistening with sweat, his silver lashes clinging to damp skin. His lips were parted. He was panting still, eyes hazy and unfocused, like I'd knocked the breath right out of his lungs.
I had.
My heart ached with how beautiful he looked like this—undone and real, and mine.
I ran my fingers lightly down his chest, pausing at each flutter of muscle, each hitch of breath, every place I knew had made him gasp under me moments ago. He blinked slowly up at me, dazed and pink and very much present, even if he looked like he was floating somewhere warm and quiet.
"You're a mess," I whispered, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. I kissed the skin there, feeling the lingering heat of exertion and something deeper.
Nine made a small, soundless laugh—more breath than voice.
He's glowing, Nyx cooed, purring in satisfaction. We broke him. In the best way.
I nudged her quiet and whispered, "Stay here," against his skin, not that he made any move to get up.
Nine gave the tiniest nod, his head sinking into the pillow as I slid off the bed.
The towel I brought back was warm from the bathroom radiator. I didn't rush. I didn't want to. There was something reverent in the moment—the way he laid there, pliant and flushed, like he was still learning how to breathe in a world where he wasn't afraid of being touched.
I cleaned him gently. Tenderly.
He watched me through half-lidded eyes, his cheeks redder than ever as I dabbed at the mess on his stomach, his thighs, the tender insides of his legs. My fingers were slow. Careful. Worshipful.
He shivered when I kissed the inside of his knee.
And when I moved higher to clean the mess between his legs, he made a soft noise and turned his face into the pillow.
"Still with me?" I murmured, pressing a kiss to his hipbone.
His hand found mine.
He didn't answer right away. Just looked up at me as I wiped him down with one hand and held his fingers with the other—like he was afraid I might fade if he didn't stay anchored.
I kissed the back of his hand, then each knuckle, then pressed a slow kiss to his wrist.
"I like taking care of you," I whispered.
He blinked at me, lips parted.
Then softly, just barely a sound—"I'm happy."
My hands stilled.
A rush of emotion surged up inside my chest like it had claws. I didn't realize how badly I needed to hear that—how much I wanted it to be true.
I set the towel aside, still holding his hand as I climbed back onto the bed.
He moved into my arms without hesitation this time, curling into my side, his forehead brushing against my collarbone. His bare skin was warm against mine, his breath soft and steady.
I tilted his chin gently, and kissed his lips—slow, deep, and full of every word I couldn't say.
"I love you," I murmured again.
He exhaled into the kiss like he was melting.
And when I tucked him against my chest and pulled the covers up around us, he didn't flinch. Didn't tense. Just buried his face in my throat and breathed me in like I was safety.
"I'm happy," he whispered again, softer.
My arms tightened around him. I kissed his hair. His temple. The curve of his ear.
And I promised myself I would never let that be taken from him again.