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I stroke myself slowly, keeping my eyes on her, watching her body writhe with each gentle movement of her hand, her hips shifting under the sheet.

“I want to be there,” I growl. “I want your legs around my waist, your nails in my back. I want to make love to you until neither of us remembers what it feels like to be apart.”

She gasps my name, her head tipping back on the pillow, her lips parting in pleasure.

My hand tightens. I match her rhythm, every breath, every soft sound she makes sending me higher.

Her voice wobbles, high and tight, desperate. “I’m close…”

“Come for me, baby,” I rasp. “Let me see you. Give it to me.”

She arches, her body trembling, her mouth falling open as she lets go, eyes fluttering shut as her pleasure washes over her in waves.

I don’t last another second.

Watching her—so undone, so mine—pulls the orgasm from me hard and fast. My body jerks, heat flooding through me in a crashing release, my breath ragged as I ride it out, her name on my lips like a prayer.

We lie there, both breathing like we just ran through a storm.

I blink up at the ceiling, trying to steady my pulse, then glance at the phone again. She’s watching me. Flushed. Glowing.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

She nods, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “Better than okay.”

I chuckle, voice low and hoarse. “Same.”

For a while, we don’t speak. We just look. Like we can’t bear to hang up. Like this little window between us is the only thing holding the world in place.

“I love you,” I say again, needing her to hear it now, after this.

She whispers it back, and it fills the space between us like something holy.

32.Laney

The familiar scentof antiseptic and bubblegum-scented hand soap fills the air as I gently settle onto the edge of the hospital bed, careful not to jostle the cluster of stuffed animals surrounding the sleepy-eyed girl nestled under a Minnie Mouse blanket.

“Again?” I ask with a soft smile.

Mylene grins up at me, her dark curls wild around her cheeks, one hand resting protectively on her side where her bandage is hidden beneath a hospital gown covered in tiny rainbow stars.

“Again,” she whispers, nodding.

Her voice is still a little raspy from the surgery—appendix out, two nights ago—but her spirit is bright, sweet, and unshakably curious.

I take her small hand in mine and start to hum, soft and slow. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”

Mylene joins in, her voice quiet and just slightly out of sync, but I let her lead the rhythm. We rock gently to the melody, her tiny fingers gripping mine, and I feel it deep in my chest—this. This is why I come here. This is what matters.

Her mom has ducked out for coffee, reluctant at first, clearly running on fumes. I promised to stay. That I’d keep Mylene company. And now, as her lashes begin to lower, her breathing evening out, I know I’ve done something small but meaningful. A little patch of calm in a hard week.

“You sing pretty,” Mylene says, blinking slowly, half-asleep.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You should be on a stage,” she says around a yawn. “Like Eddie Crowe.”

I blink. A smile tugs at my lips. “You like Eddie Crowe?”