Page 28

"I want." He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine while he worked at the buttons of my flannel. "I want you."

There was something profound about baring our bodies under the vast sky, skin touching skin, with nothing between us and the stars.

Eric's body was lean and strong, pale in the lighthouse beam that swept across us.

His hands explored my chest, ribs, and the scar tissue around my knee that told the story of everything I'd lost.

When his fingers traced the raised skin where the surgeon had rebuilt my joint, I tensed.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." The truth surprised me. "Not when you touch it."

The blanket slid as we shifted, the wool scratchy against my back but his body warm and smooth over mine. Each touch was deliberate—his fingertips brushing the line of my collarbone, the curve of my hip, and the places no one had ever touched.

My hands gripped his waist, holding him steady as he arched into me, causing our stiff cocks to rub together. His breath hitched, and I swallowed the sound in a kiss that deepened until it felt like we were made of the same breath.

The lighthouse beam swept over us again—bright, then gone—like the universe reminding us we were still here, still real.

Eric's palms cupped my backside, gentle and certain, and I groaned into the crook of his neck. I felt raw, open—but not exposed. It was different with him. Nothing performative. Nothing borrowed. Just heat, skin, and the wild miracle of someone wanting me exactly as I was.

Eric's skin was soft under my hands, alive and responsive. He gasped when I touched him, and I smiled against his shoulder.

I closed my eyes and let it all happen—let him happen. Every instinct to hide or deflect dissolved beneath the rhythm of our bodies moving together, the friction, the closeness, and the wordless exchange of trust.

He didn't ask about penetration, and we didn't need it. Under the stars, we stroked each other to the edge. When release came, it was quiet. No fireworks. Just a long exhale into his shoulder, like something old and broken inside me had finally let go.

He didn't move. He wrapped both arms around me and held me like I was something precious.

"I'm here," he whispered again, voice hoarse against my ear. "I'm not going to leave."

And finally, for the first time, I believed him.

It felt like someone was taking a crowbar to my heart—not to break it, but to pry it open. To make room for something I'd forgotten I was allowed to want.

The ocean crashed against the cliffs below us, drowning out every sound except our breathing and the soft words we whispered to each other in the darkness. Eric repeated my name like it meant something.

We lay tangled together afterward, Eric's head on my chest while my heart gradually returned to something resembling a normal pace. The lighthouse beam continued its patient sweep, marking time while we existed in our bubble of warmth and satisfaction.

"Listen," Eric whispered.

I listened. The ocean's rhythm filled the silence—waves advancing and retreating. The sound had been my constant companion for sixteen years, but for once, it sounded different. I imagined it sweeping away the past, forgiving me.

"It's washing everything away." Eric traced patterns on my chest with a fingertip. "All the doubt and all the fear. It's all gone."

He was right. The ocean was taking my carefully constructed arguments for why this couldn't work and why I didn't deserve happiness. Wave by wave, doubt by doubt, until all that remained was this: his warm body against mine and his steady breathing.

The nineteen-year-old inside me spoke. "I've been so scared."

"I know." Eric's arms tightened around me.

Above us, a shooting star streaked across the sky—just one, not the shower we'd watched weeks ago, but bright enough to catch our attention. Eric lifted his head to follow its path.

"Make a wish," he said softly.

I looked at him—hair mussed from my fingers and lips swollen from kissing. I realized I didn't need to wish for anything. Everything I'd been scared to want was already in my arms, solid and real, and choosing to stay.

"Already came true," I told him.

We dressed slowly, reluctant to break the spell of the clifftop but knowing we'd both freeze if we stayed much longer.

The walk back to the cottage felt different than the climb up.

Where before I'd been leading Eric toward my confession and an explanation for why we couldn't be together, now we walked side by side, hands linked, sharing the path like we shared everything else.

Eric stopped walking and turned to face me. "Wes Hunter, you are worth everything I'm doing here. You're worth staying for, fighting for, and choosing you every day for the rest of my life if you'll let me."

I pulled him close and kissed him there on the path.

The cottage came into view through the beach grass, its windows glowing with the warm light of the oil lamps we'd left burning. For sixteen years, it wasn't my refuge. It was my self-constructed prison.

Tonight, at last, it looked like home.

Eric opened the front door, and we stepped inside together.

Everything was different. The narrow hallway that had seemed designed for one person now felt like it could accommodate two.

The kitchen table where I'd eaten solitary meals for years looked like it was meant for conversation, shared coffee, and the comfortable chaos of someone else's research materials.

Eric looked around like he was seeing it for the first time. "This place doesn't feel lonely anymore."

"It's not just mine anymore. It's ours."

We stood there in my kitchen—our kitchen—while the lighthouse beam swept across the windows and the ocean whispered its ancient promises against the shore.

Eric moved closer. "So, what happens now?"

I looked at him—the brilliant, beautiful man who'd somehow seen through my defenses to the person I'd forgotten I could be—and felt something I hadn't experienced since I left Whistleport.

Hope.

"Now we figure it out together."

The cottage settled around us with creaks and sighs, adjusting to accommodate two heartbeats instead of one.