Page 63

Chapter Seven

The room was steeped in silence, the kind that only came after something monumental. The air was thick—heated skin, spent energy, and the undeniable weight of something they’d both been too afraid to name before tonight.

Lincoln lay against Henry, boneless, his breath slow but uneven, like his body hadn’t yet figured out it was allowed to rest. Henry's hand traced along his spine, skating his fingertips over sweat-damp skin in slow, absentminded patterns. Each stroke sent a ripple of sensation through Lincoln’s body.

The feeling was not enough to reignite, but enough to remind him they were both here. He was held.

He pressed in closer, burying his face against Henry’s shoulder, the heat of their bodies seeping together.

Lincoln felt content in a way he hadn’t been in months or even years.

He wanted to speak, to say something that could capture this moment, but the words that formed in his sluggish mind felt clumsy and inadequate. So, he remained silent.

Henry’s breathing was steady against his temple, like he was drifting off to sleep, but Lincoln knew him too well. Beneath the surface, there was something brewing. Henry rested his fingers against Lincoln’s ribs, and he could feel them tremble slightly.

Then, a deep inhale.

“I was scared.”

Lincoln stilled.

Henry didn’t pause. His grip around Henry’s waist tightened and his thumb pressing lightly into his side, like his Master needed the anchor before he kept going.

“I kept telling myself I was giving you space.” Henry’s grip eased as he moved his hand. “That you needed time.” He felt silent for a heartbeat and inhaled sharply – stuttering. Then, he continued— his voice almost too soft to hear, “But the truth is, I was scared.”

Lincoln’s throat thickened, and his pulse roared in his ears. He swallowed, his lips parting, but the words weren’t ready yet.

Henry exhaled. “Scared of failing you.”

Lincoln's fingers curled against Henry’s chest.

Henry didn’t fail. That wasn’t who he was. He was solid, immovable, and constant. Lincoln had spent over two decades leaning into that strength, trusting it without question. But the guilt in Henry’s voice wasn’t something he could ignore.

“I didn’t know how to help,” Henry admitted. His thumb brushed over Lincoln’s ribs again. “Didn’t know how to fix it. So, I did what I always do—I handled it. I made decisions. I shielded you.” He pressed a kiss against Lincoln’s temple. “And in doing that, I left you behind.”

Lincoln’s breath caught. He turned his head just enough to press his lips to Henry’s skin. The salty taste of sweat hit his tongue.

“You didn’t leave me,” Lincoln whispered. “I got lost.”

Henry's arms tightened into an almost punishing grip, and Lincoln could feel the way he held himself still, like he was holding himself together by a thread.

Lincoln shifted just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to Henry’s lips. Beneath the hand resting on his Master’s chest, he could feel the beat of his heart. He let himself feel it—let himself believe it.

“I’ve felt… like a ghost of myself,” he admitted.

The words scraped against his throat, thick with months of silence.

“Between my body betraying me and my mind running in circles, I just—I didn’t know how to be us anymore.

” He curled his hands into fists on Henry’s chest before making the cognitive effort to stretch them out again, making as much physical contact as possible.

“And when you stopped touching me, when you stopped looking at me like you used to, I thought…” He inhaled, shaky. “Maybe I was too broken.”

Henry gasped.

Then, his arms snapped tight, dragging Lincoln flush against him in a grip so fierce it almost stole his breath. “Never.”

Lincoln barely had time to inhale before Henry rolled, pressing him into the mattress with his solid and unyielding weight.

Lincoln stared up into his Master’s gorgeous, beloved face.

When Henry’s hands framed Lincoln’s face, and his dark eyes burning into his with something so fierce and unshakable, it made Lincoln’s chest ache.

“Don’t you ever think that.” Henry’s eyes blazed.

Lincoln swallowed hard, his lips parting, but Henry didn’t let him speak.

“You’re not broken,” Henry continued, his breath hot against Lincoln’s lips. The hands around his face were firm and anchoring. “You’re mine.”

Lincoln's chest tightened, a tremor of emotion rising like a wave he wasn’t sure he could ride. Something sharp ached behind his ribs—grief, maybe, or the ghost of all those lonely nights spent wondering if this was the end. But still, he didn’t look away.

He wanted to. Part of him wanted to turn his face, to pull back before hope could take root and get ripped out all over again. Before he could let himself believe Henry still wanted all of him—the strong parts, the broken ones, the pieces held together by sheer will.

But the way Henry cradled his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones with reverence, made him feel less like a burden and more like something precious. Not fragile. Just cherished.

Still, fear hummed under his skin. What if this was only a moment of softness before being set aside again? What if he wasn’t strong enough anymore — not as a submissive, not as a partner?

He stood suspended between doubt and yearning, between the urge to run and the desperate, clawing need to be held in place.

Henry’s thumbs brushed his cheekbones, like he was memorizing the shape of him all over again. “I should have said it more. Should have shown you more.” He exhaled through his nose, and his gorgeous eyes seemed to become even darker. “But make no mistake, my boy—you’re wanted and all mine.”

Lincoln's breath hitched, and he moved restless hands over Henry’s skin.

Henry leaned in, brushing his lips over Lincoln’s forehead, down his jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a slow and deliberate caress. Like he was staking a claim.

Between each kiss he muttered words, “I,” down his jaw, “want,” Against his collar bone, “us,” the underside of his chin, “back.”

Lincoln exhaled and rejoiced. His chest rose and fell in time with Henry’s. His body was drained, and his muscles were limp, but God, for the first time in so long he felt whole.

He reached up, curling his fingers around Henry’s face and urged Henry to bring their faces together. “Then let’s start over, Sir.”

Henry held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

“No more shutting me out,” he murmured.

Lincoln nodded. “And no more making decisions for me.”

Henry’s lips curved, something softer threading into his smirk. “But you like when I make the decisions.”

Lincoln snorted, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. “Okay, let me rephrase that — please don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.”

Henry’s smirk deepened. “So… not a hard limit, then?”

Lincoln rolled his eyes, but his voice was quiet when he replied. “Only if you start bubble-wrapping me before bed.”

Henry chuckled, then shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling Lincoln with him. Their limbs tangled, and the warmth between them settled into something that didn’t need words.

Lincoln rested his head against Henry’s chest, his breathing syncing to the slow, steady rhythm beneath his ear.

Henry’s hand traced slow, absent patterns down his spine again.

They didn’t need to promise anything.

Not when it was written in touch. In breath. In the steady thrum of Henry’s heart beating against his own.