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Her hand presses against my heart in the same way mine did to hers, and then she kisses my lips so softly, I feel it right through me, from my heels to my nape, and when her hand drifts lower to undo my belt with trembling fingers, I swear under my breath, caught off guard by how badly I want this.

More than the sex and the sounds and the slick heat and the way her body curves like it was shaped for me.

I want to lose myself in her, completely, the way she lost herself in me.

I want to be hers, even if it’s only once.

I want her to see me the way I see her .

She pulls me in, and I let her guide me inside the place I made slick and wet.

I groan as her body clasps me tightly, and we move like our bodies remember doing this before, familiar and easy.

Her legs wrap around my waist, and I sink into her tight heat with a groan that feels torn from the center of my chest. Our eyes lock as her hand cups my cheek, and when she gasps, and her fingers dig into my back like she’s holding on for something more than balance, I want to be her rock.

We find a rhythm that’s fast, desperate, and familiar, like this is the one language we both speak fluently. Her hips rise to meet mine; her teeth scrape my shoulder, and every sound she makes roots itself deep inside me.

She says my name like a prayer, and I give her everything I have: every urgent thrust, every stolen breath, and I take every whispered yes, yes, yes she doesn’t know she’s giving me.

I hold her like she’s breakable and kiss her like she’s not, and when she falls apart under me, her body shaking, her face buried in my neck, I let myself fall with her, groaning her name.

“Gracie.”

She lives up to her name in all ways.

I don’t live up to mine.

Levi means to join or to connect, and apart from my brothers and cousins, I’ve never been able to connect with anyone.

Even Rory, my flesh and blood, my son, feels separate in a way I know isn’t right.

I hold Grace, knowing that at this moment, we’re connected more than physically, but that any minute it will slip through my fingers like grain because I always let go first, before they notice I’m not worth holding on to.

We lay tangled on the hay, breathing hard, the air thick with sweat and approaching rain, and quiet thunder still on the horizon.

Grace has one arm thrown over her eyes, the other still curved around my ribs.

Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and for a second, I think she might have fallen asleep.

But then she shifts, exhales, and turns her face toward me.

She doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

Because what the hell would I say? You’re welcome? I needed that? You made me feel something other than hollow for thirty whole minutes?

No.

That isn’t how this works.

Instead, I sit up, heart racing as I tuck my dick away, pull my jeans back on, and grab my shirt off the bale behind me. I hold it in my hands like maybe if I don’t rush, she won’t think I’m retreating.

But I am.

From the quiet that comes after. From the part where someone might ask for more than what I know how to give. From the whispered intimacy that makes me feel like a fraud.

She props herself on one elbow, watching me with a curiosity that prickles my skin.

And that’s worse.

“That was—” she starts.

“Yeah,” I blurt.

She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You always shut down this fast, or am I lucky?”

I grin like I always do, flashing the charm as a deflection. “What can I say? I’m a gentleman. Can’t have a lady thinking I’ll ruin her and overstay my welcome.”

She stiffens but then rolls her eyes and tosses a piece of hay at me. “You’re a jackass.”

“Yeah,” I say again, grinning. “But tonight, this jackass rocked your world, right darlin’?”

It lands flat, even though I deliver it smoothly.

Grace doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t press because I’m already buttoning up the pieces of myself I let her touch.

And I know I’ll regret this later, except for the part where I showed her that she isn’t broken, even as I broke myself .

But I keep going because it’s all I know how to do.

Leaning back against the wall, I run a hand over my face, trying to shake the weight settling behind my ribs.

Rory flashes in my mind then. His tiny body curled up in his crib, the way he smiles like the world hasn’t done anything wrong yet, even though it has. I think about the way he looks up at me, wide-eyed and trusting, like I’m someone solid and worthy of his innocent love.

I’m not.

Hell, I don’t even know for sure if he’s mine.

I don’t remember his mother’s name. I don’t remember the night he was conceived.

His birth certificate was tucked into the box we found him in and lists his name as Rory Levi.

It was the only clue. That and his big blue eyes are a reflection of mine.

I knew, or maybe hoped. Maybe it felt easier to claim him than admit how empty I’d felt long before he got dropped on our doorstep.

And the worst part?

I don’t know if I’m what he needs. I don’t know how to be a real father like Corbin or Dylan—men who carry their children’s weight without flinching, no matter how heavy it is. Men who know how to be present.

But at least Rory has them: ten other men who’ll show him what a good man looks like.

Because whatever else I am—pretty, funny, quick with my hands, and quicker with my mouth—I’m not a man to build a life around.

Or build a kid around.

So yeah, maybe this is all I’m good for. It’s what Carl Banister’s wife told me after she took what wasn’t hers and what I wasn’t ready to give when I was only fifteen.

A night in a barn. A moment someone might remember fondly. A giver of orgasms.

But nothing more.