I love him in a way that terrifies me, in a way that is uncertain if I think too far ahead. Because what if this ends again? What if we fall apart not because of anger or betrayal… but because of distance? Or bad timing?

What if we want different things?

His fingers flex, like he’s feeling for me, and I lace my fingers through his.

“You’re quiet,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

I stare up at the ceiling, where the shadows stretch long. “Tomorrow. Leaving.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

His thumb caresses the top of my hand. “You okay?”

“No.” How could I be when I’m getting on a plane in the morning and leaving half of my heart behind in this bed?

I roll onto my side, letting my hand drift across the warm expanse of his chest, the steady rise and fall beneath my palm.

His eyes find mine in the dim room like he senses it too—this hunger. This unspoken thing pulling tight between us.

“Are you in pain?”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “Not pain. Just aching for you.”

I don’t need him to explain. I feel it too. This desire, this need, that lives somewhere deeper than skin.

My lips curve as I slide my hand farther down, fingers brushing the waistband of his briefs. “Lucky for you, I have the cure for that particular ache.”

His brow lifts, and he watches me like I’m something to behold.

I sit up and tug the blanket down, careful of his leg. He shifts for me, wincing as I push his waistband down. When he’s bare, I press a kiss just below his navel, and he breathes out my name—low and wrecked.

I kiss lower. Then lower still.

I smile against his skin, teasing the edge of his hipbone with my tongue, dragging it slow. Deliberate. He sucks in a breath, hips twitching beneath my touch.

“Fuck… babe.”

I trace the defined cut of his abdomen, fingers trailing light as a whisper, making him shiver beneath me. My nails scrape along the inside of his thigh, and he groans.

“Open up that pretty little mouth for me. Show me how much you want to taste my cock.”

I flatten my tongue and lick a slow, lazy path from base to tip, taking my time, my gaze locked on his face.

His jaw clenches, and he fists the sheet.

“Babe, you’re fucking killing me.”

I hum, letting the vibration tease against him. Because I know he loves it.

My hand grips the base of his cock, stroking slow and steady while my touch traces the crown of its head. When I take him into my mouth—inch by inch, warm and wet and deliberate—it’s not a physical act. It’s connection. Pure and consuming.