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There’s a pause. He shifts in his seat, face half in shadow.

“Are we just going back to how things were, Wren?” he asks.

My chest tightens. I don't answer right away.

Sean finishes his wine, then sets the glass down on the table between us. “I hope not.”

My pulses races.

Sean doesn’t speak for a long time.

“I meant what I said,” he says at last, voice low. “This stopped being pretend a long time ago.”

I stare at him, the truth of it settling like a weight in my bones. “I don’t know what to do with that,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to do anything.” He reaches for my hand. “Just don’t run.”

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him.

But then his mouth is on mine, and everything inside me cracks wide open. The kiss is desperate, furious, almost painful in its intensity. Weeks of space, of ache, of unsaid things poured into every stroke of his tongue, every movement of his mouth against mine.

His hands are rough as they tug me closer, sliding beneath my blouse, finding bare skin. I gasp as his palm grazes the side of my breast and then moan when his mouth trails hotly down my neck, my collarbone, my shoulder.

“Sean—”

The kiss deepens and my hands clutch the front of his shirt like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. He pulls me closer, one arm sliding around my waist, the other cupping the back of my head. The patio fades away. The stars blur overhead.

His hands skim my waist, my hips, my thighs. My skirt rides up as I press against him, needy, aching, undone. My fingers tug at his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to feel the warm, solid strength of him.

Then, all of a sudden, his heat is gone. He pulls away.

“Wren,” he breathes, shoving a hand over his face, and in the moonlight, his salt-and-pepper hair gleams like a crown.

“I don’t want space tonight,” I whisper, my fingers trembling as I reach out and between my thighs, my wetness aches with need. “Not from you.”

Something breaks in him at that.

His blue eyes cloud. “Oh, Wren…”

He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, clutching his shoulders as he carries me through the hallway. We don’t make it to a bedroom. He lowers me onto the couch, his mouth never leaving mine.

We undress each other slowly and then all at once. Lips dragging, hands exploring, the quiet sound of breath and fabric filling the space between us. My body is still humming with grief, exhaustion, pride, and uncertainty, and he feels it all. He reads me like a language he’s known forever.

When he enters me, it’s with a reverence that shatters me.

I gasp his name, head falling back as he fills me deep and steady, grounding me with every slow thrust. My hands cling to his back. My legs tremble around his waist. He kisses my throat, my collarbone, and the inside of my wrist.

“I missed you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Even when you were right in front of me.”

Tears sting my eyes.

I arch into him, meeting every movement, chasing that breathless pleasure. It’s not just about sex. It’s about being seen. Being held. Being his.

We move together.

I come apart with his name on my lips, and he follows soon after, burying his face in my neck, both of us shaking in the afterglow.

“I’ve missed you too.” My voice is small, my fingers trailing his skin like a treasure map.