But instead of walking away, he pauses, leaning against the frame like it's all that's keeping him upright.

"Fuck this," he says softly then turns to look at me. "I'm done."

My heart stutters. "Done with what?"

"Pretending." The words rumble from his chest, heavy with frustrated desire. He crosses the space between us in measured steps. My back meets the wall as his hands cup my face, eyes locked on mine like he's committing every detail to memory.

"I'm done pretending I don't want every fucking part of you."

The kiss that follows isn't just contact—it's combustion. Slow, devastating heat that spreads through my veins. He watches me when I pull away to remove his shirt. My hands slide over his body, exploring the terrain with trembling fingers. Years of protecting those he loves has sculpted him into something beautiful and brutal—hard ridges of muscle shift under my touch, and raised scars tell stories of a childhood spent standing between a monster and the people he loved most in the world. Every mark is a testament to the way he loves—completely, fiercely, with his whole body as a shield. He was a just a boy when he received most of these scars. A boy who learnt way too young that some loves are worth bleeding for.

My fingers wind into his dark hair, silk-soft strands between my knuckles, and when I tug gently, the groan that rumbles from his chest vibrates through every point where our bodies touch. The sound shoots straight to my core, drawing an answering whimper from my throat. Every brush of his hands feels like breaking free of gravity.

We move together with an instinct deeper than memory, as if our bodies have been rehearsing this dance in dreams, just waiting for reality to catch up. His calloused fingertips trace fire up my thighs, the rough texture against my sensitive skin sending shivers cascading through me. I arch into his touch, craving more friction. When he grips the hem of his shirt that I'm wearing and slowly pulls it off, the air between us changes. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as they take in every inch of newly exposed skin. The possessive heat in his gaze is palpable, molten gold and hunger wrapped into one look that makes my knees weak.

His finger comes to rest on my bottom lip, gently tracing its outline. My breath catches as he slowly trails that finger down, over my chin, following the curve of my neck. His touch is feather-light but leaves a scorching path in its wake. He pauses at my collarbone, eyes locked with mine as his finger continues its journey downward, between my breasts, the simple contact more intimate than anything I've ever felt.

"Is this okay?" he whispers, his voice husky with restraint.