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He pulls back just enough to look up at me. His mouth is damp, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.

“You’re allowed to want something just because it feels good,” he says, voice low, almost quiet. “Especially here. Especially now.”

I nod, too fast, too desperate, and then my hands are at the hem of his shirt, fingers curled in the fabric. I drag it up, slow at first, then faster when I feel his stomach twitch under my touch.

Gods.

He’s all sharp lines and coiled heat. Chest broad and scarred, abs ridged and flexing beneath my palms. I run my hands up, not shy, not hesitant, letting my thumbs brush the cut of his ribs, then higher, across his chest where his heart beats hard against my fingertips.

He lets out a sound, half-growl, half-exhale, and shifts forward so our chests press together. Skin to skin. Sweat and breath and heat. It’s overwhelming. It’s not enough.

“You feel…” I can’t even finish the sentence.

His hands slide into my hair, fisting gently at the base of my skull. “Tell me what you need, Luna.”

“You.”

“You have me.”

“No. I need…” I swallow, panting slightly. “I need to forget. Just for a little while.”

His thumb strokes the edge of my jaw, then his lips are back on mine. This time it’s slower, but not softer. It’s a slow unravel. The kind that strips you open inch by inch and makes you want every second of it.

He pulls me tighter, and I grind against him, friction sharp and aching and perfect. There’s nothing left between us but sweat and desperation and the faint scent of rain-soaked stone.

I run my hands down his back, across the firm slope of his shoulder blades, the taut muscles that hold more than they show. I want to map every scar, every ridge of bone. I want to crawl inside his body and disappear for an hour, a minute, whatever this place will give me before it turns on us again.

He nips at my bottom lip, teeth scraping just enough to make me gasp.

“You don’t want soft,” he mutters against my mouth. “Do you.”

I shake my head. “I want real.”

“Good.”

Then he flips me gently, guiding me down to the stone floor without ever breaking contact. My back meets the cool slab, and I arch into him, fingers curled tight in his hair. He kisses down my chest, over every inch he can reach, like he’s making a new map of my body. Like worship.

And gods, I let him.

I want this. I wanthim. Not because I’m lost. Not because I’m lonely. But because in this gods-damned place that eats memory and warps desire into something brittle and hollow, he’s the only thing that hasn’t twisted.

He’s fire. Not warmth. Not comfort. The kind that consumes. The kind that brands.

And I want to burn.

So I pull him closer, wrap my legs around his hips, and I tell myself I’ll deal with the fallout later.

Because right now, this is mine.

Right now, this is real.

His mouth crashes into mine, tongue sweeping in, deep and hot and demanding. I taste rain and salt and something darker underneath, something that feels like it was carved from my own need. I moan against him, quiet but broken, tracing the curves of muscle, the warm dip of his spine, the way his body tightens with every motion.

His skin is slick with heat, rainwater and sweat tangled together, and I can feel the shiver ripple through him when my nails scrape down, slow, just enough to leave a trail.

He shifts his weight, hips pressing into mine. I tilt into him, a reflex I can’t hold back, my body grinding up against the hard line of him through both our pants. The friction is sharp and maddening, just a taste, not enough. I want more. I need more. That ache is back, deep and low, growing unbearable. Like it’s blooming up from my core and threatening to hollow me out from the inside.

We’re both still clothed from the waist down, and it feels like the cruelest kind of joke.