Moons and Mobility Aids

He shifts, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, his scruff catching slightly on your skin. "I might be. But if this is a dream, then I'd like to make it significantly more delicious."

"It's three in the morning."

"Exactly. The witching hour. For toasties."

You groan softly. The pillow smells like Sirius—like whatever shampoo he borrowed last week and never returned, and something warm and smoky that always lingers on his skin, even hours after his last cigarette. You could say no. He'd pout for five minutes and fall back asleep, limbs all over the place, mumbling about caramelised onions and lost opportunities. But then he does it—the thing he always does when he wants to win. He slips out of bed, all bare legs and shamelessness, and plants himself in front of you like some ancient Greek statue brought to life just to torment you. He strikes a pose, lit from behind by that same sleepy streetlamp, smirking like a man who has never once doubted he'll get his way.

"I will go alone," he declares, dramatically sweeping his arm toward the hallway. "I will toast alone. I will weep into my sandwich, alone. And whose fault will it be? Yours, obviously."

You open one eye. Barely. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously hungry," he grins, and then his eyes soften, just a little, flicking to your face with that unspoken question. Not will you come—he knows you'll come, eventually—but can you. And whether you want to. Whether your body can handle another few hours of consciousness, whether the pain is manageable tonight, whether the chair feels like freedom or friction.

You sigh. The mattress sighs with you. "Only if you do all the slicing."

"I live to slice," he says solemnly, already grabbing your chair from beside the bed. He parks it next to you with the kind of flair that suggests he thinks he's doing something heroic. He even bows, dramatically, and gestures like a stagehand inviting the star onto the set.

The kitchen is washed in the dim yellow glow of the old overhead light, flickering slightly in that way you've both come to consider part of the flat's charm. There's a burnt patch in one corner of the linoleum from where Sirius dropped a lit oven mitt last winter, and you still haven't replaced the handle on the second drawer. The clock ticks loudly above the sink, clashing with the dull hum of the refrigerator and the distant groan of plumbing in the walls. The air smells faintly of dish soap, cracked pepper, and the ghost of last night's takeaway. You spot an open jar of gherkins abandoned from days ago. Sirius keeps insisting they don't go off.

He pads across the floor in his socks, humming a tune that doesn't quite match the rhythm, toeing open the fridge and groaning like he's just discovered buried treasure.

"We've got the good cheddar," he calls over his shoulder. "And sourdough. Sourdough, darling. We're basically royalty."

You wheel in behind him, the hum of the chair blending with the low, distant rumble of early October wind through the cracked window. The breeze slips in around the sill, cool and sharp against your overheated skin. There's a small, familiar ache where your spine meets the seat, the kind that's always there when you've been lying down too long and then get up too fast, but the anticipation of food—and the promise of Sirius in full chaos mode—is enough to push it back.

He lays out the ingredients like he's preparing a ritual. Sourdough, butter, cheese, thinly sliced ham, even a little Dijon. A sad-looking tomato gets involved too, sliced with ceremonial care. He arranges everything with unnecessary flair, tossing slices of bread in the air and catching them with exaggerated bows. He dramatically announces each ingredient like a contestant on a cooking show: "Presenting… Le Fromage!"

You watch as he constructs the sandwiches with the kind of intense, theatrical concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal or brain surgery. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. His hair keeps falling in his face. He brushes it away with the back of his wrist, smearing a bit of mustard across his cheek. He doesn't notice. You do, but you don't say anything. He's got a dab of butter on his collarbone too, and you mentally add it to the list of things he won't clean up before trying to cuddle you later.

"You're getting butter and mustard everywhere," you warn him.

"Worth it," he says, licking a finger. "This is art."

"You said that last time. Then you forgot the cheese."

"A creative choice," he says solemnly. "Minimalist. Subversive."

"You put crisps in it."

"That part was genius."

The toastie maker clicks shut with a final, satisfying snap. He glances at you. Smiles. And then, as if summoned by some invisible deity of questionable taste, he grabs his phone and taps it once against the speaker on the counter.

Synth beats explode into the air.

"No," you say instantly, grinning despite yourself. "Absolutely not. We talked about this. No Duran Duran."

"You say that," Sirius counters, spinning on the spot like he's in a music video, "but your soul says reflex, flex, flex, flex."

He's shirtless, of course. Chest scattered with scars and ink and last week's suntan, arms raised in mock-seduction as he lip-syncs dramatically, strutting across the kitchen floor with the sort of commitment that would impress an entire West End cast. He knocks over the salt jar. Doesn't even notice. A lemon rolls off the counter and thuds onto the floor. A tea towel catches on his foot as he slides by and becomes part of the choreography.

You laugh so hard your head tips back, hands gripping your wheels as you spin in a slow circle, narrowly avoiding the edge of the counter. Your cheeks ache already. Your ribs protest a little from the movement, but it's a good kind of ache—the kind that says you're alive, and here, and so bloody lucky to know someone who makes the world feel this ridiculous at midnight on a Wednesday.

"You're a menace," you shout over the music.

"I'm a visionary!" he cries, sliding across the tiles in his socks like he's starring in a 1983 film about dreams and toasties. He grabs a wooden spoon and pretends it's a microphone, belting off-key into it like the kitchen is Wembley Stadium. Then he tosses it over his shoulder and twirls like he's auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing. He nearly crashes into the recycling bin.

He reaches for your hands before you can dodge him, gripping them and spinning both of you in a clumsy, chaotic approximation of a waltz. Your wheels pivot beneath you, smooth and swift, the way they always do when you let yourself trust them. Trust him. He doesn't lead so much as spiral, limbs all over the place, like someone tried to choreograph joy and gave up halfway through. He spins and dips and lifts your arms like he's choreographing the finale of a musical only he knows. You're not sure if he's following any real steps or just winging it with dramatic flair and unfounded confidence.

"One, two, three," he murmurs, counting the steps as if either of you have any sense of rhythm left. "One, two, spin."

"You're going to fall."

"I fall for you every day, darling."

"That's not what I meant."

He throws his head back and laughs, still holding your hands, still spinning, like some wild, beautiful idiot who has never known restraint. The room is hot with music and burnt cheese and laughter, and your chest hurts in the best possible way. Your wheels bump gently against his shin, and he doesn't even flinch. Just laughs harder. Spins again. You wheel in tighter and he squeals like you've thrown him off balance, but somehow he regains his footing and twirls both of you once more with a victorious cackle. Then he leans in with mock seriousness, kisses the back of your hand, and dips you backwards in a wildly impractical swoop that nearly knocks over a chair.

The toastie maker dings like a bell at the end of a boxing match, and Sirius freezes mid-dip, head tilted, mouth slightly open in a pantomime of shock.

"That," he says breathlessly, lifting you upright with a dramatic flourish, "was perfectly timed."

You roll your eyes, cheeks sore from grinning, the giddy warmth in your chest still buzzing from the spin. He spins away like he's doing a victory lap, arms in the air as if the kitchen were a stadium filled with thunderous applause, then turns back to the counter with a sudden, exaggerated seriousness, posture straightening like he's about to deliver a TED Talk on the art of toasties. With mock-gravitas, he unplugs the toastie maker and carefully lifts the sandwiches out with exaggerated reverence, biting his lip for added flair.

"And now," he announces, placing your toastie on a mismatched plate with a flourish and a completely unnecessary bow, "for the grand finale."

You don't know what you expect—another twirl, probably. Maybe a Shakespearean toast. Possibly a musical number. But instead, he rummages in the infamous junk drawer, muttering to himself like he's on a scavenger hunt through time and memory, until he triumphantly pulls out a half-burnt candle. One of the emergency ones you keep around in case the power goes out. It's lopsided, vaguely smells like eucalyptus and something medicinal, and has a bit of cat hair stuck to the side from that one time it rolled under the sofa and nobody retrieved it for weeks.

He places it ceremoniously in the middle of the table—right between a half-folded napkin and a chipped mug—lights it with a theatrical flick of his lighter, and stands back, hands on hips, as if he's just invented electricity.

"Ambience," he declares, deeply satisfied. The candle sputters once, then steadies into a wonky little flame.

"You're such a knob," you say, but you're already wheeling over, letting the warmth in his absurdity wrap around you like a blanket. You ease into place at the table with the practiced grace that only comes from years of living in your body, in this life, and he beams at you like you've just appeared from smoke and stars.

He pulls out a chair for himself with a noise of mock gallantry, sitting cross-legged like he's at a five-star restaurant in some moody Parisian alley. The candlelight flickers across the butter on his chin, gleaming like a smear of treasure, and he doesn't notice. You're pretty sure he hasn't noticed anything on his face in the last hour. Not the cheese stretching down his neck, not the Dijon fingerprint on his cheekbone. He just exists in this beautifully chaotic way, like gravity obeys him only when he permits it.

You take a bite of your toastie—crispy, salty, perfectly gooey, the kind of food that hits exactly where it needs to in the middle of the night. The sigh you let out is involuntary, contented, and apparently devastating, because Sirius clasps a hand over his heart like you've just read him a love letter.

"See?" he says. "Art. Culinary brilliance. I should open a food truck. I'd call it 'Black Toast.'"

You snort through your next bite. "Terrible. I'd give it one star for the pun alone."

"But five for taste," he says, already halfway through his own sandwich. He takes an enormous bite and groans like he's in a romance film. Then he waves the toastie in the air like a wand. "I'm telling you, I'd be a culinary icon. I'd wear sunglasses indoors and give snobby interviews about the emotional potential of sourdough."

"You already wear sunglasses indoors."

"Exactly," he says, gesturing with a crumb-covered hand. "I'm halfway there. I just need a food truck and a tragic backstory. Something about a burnt panini and a broken heart."

You grin at him, still chewing, and then, without really thinking about it, you break off a bite of your own toastie and hold it out across the table. He leans in instantly, exaggeratedly, mouth open like a baby bird.

"Say ah," you deadpan.

"Ahhh," he says, and closes his teeth around the corner.

He chews dramatically, eyes fluttering shut as if he's just tasted heaven, and then groans even louder. He throws his head back, presses a hand to his chest again, and slumps in his chair like he's been overcome with emotion.

"Oh my God. That's it. That's the one. Cancel the wedding. I'm marrying this sandwich."

"Rude," you mutter.

He peeks one eye open and smirks at you, then leans across the cluttered table—past the tea-stained coaster, the crooked salt shaker, and the paper towel roll you still haven't replaced with an actual napkin holder—and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Quick, soft, but lingering enough to make your skin buzz where his lips had been, like the spark of the lighter still echoes there.

"Best date I've ever had," he whispers, close enough that the words vibrate against your cheek more than your ears.

You roll your eyes, but it's entirely performative. The warmth blooming across your chest spreads into your arms, your fingertips, down through your spine and into the wheels of your chair. Like a slow-motion sunrise, glowing from the inside out.

There's cheese on his chin and butter in his hair. Crumbs all over the table, and his toastie is slowly collapsing under the weight of too much filling, a gooey mess dripping onto the plate below. The candle is listing sideways, dripping wax onto the takeout menu it's perched on, and the flame is giving everything a slightly golden tinge, as if the kitchen has turned into a low-budget art film. The shadows dance across the ceiling, soft and strange, and outside, a car rumbles past, its headlights briefly illuminating the faded wallpaper and mismatched cutlery.

Somewhere in the flat, the radiator groans. Pipes creak in protest. The night hums around you like it knows it's not finished yet.

You catch yourself watching him again. Not the way someone watches a lover, but the way you might stare at something rare and unrepeatable. Like a comet. Or the first morning frost. Or a shooting star that somehow decided to land right here, barefoot and butter-smeared, in your kitchen.

He catches your gaze, and for once, doesn't joke. He just smiles. Small, tired, genuine. Like he knows what you're thinking. Like maybe he was thinking it too.

And somehow—somehow—he's still the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Not in a polished, cover-of-a-magazine way. Not even in a poetic, tragic-hero sense. Just in the way he exists. Loud and ridiculous and soft around the edges. In the way he looks at you like the moon rose just to spotlight you. In the way he'll burn toast at 3AM and call it a love language. In the way he insists on candlelight even when it's just cheese sandwiches and slightly stale crisps. In the way he lives loudly, with his whole chest, and loves even louder. In the way his presence makes every mundane thing—every flicker of light, every uneven plate, every crumb—feel intentional, sacred.

You take another bite. He watches you like you're his favourite story. He reaches over and steals a crisp off your plate without asking, then offers you the last bite of his toastie like it's a sacred relic. You lean in and take it without a word. The silence between you is golden.

He props his elbow on the table, rests his chin in his hand, and just watches you. You feel it—the full weight of his gaze—but it doesn't make you flinch or squirm. It makes you want to lean into it, into him. Into this moment.

You nudge your plate forward and he tears off another bite, chewing thoughtfully this time, more grounded than before. His knee brushes yours under the table. He doesn't move it. Doesn't apologise. Just stays there.

By the time you finish eating, the kitchen is an absolute disaster.

There are toastie crumbs ground into the grout between the tiles, smears of butter across the counter, a streak of cheese down one cabinet that neither of you remembers putting there, and the candle has burnt down to a sad little stump of wax leaning precariously to one side. Someone—likely Sirius, with all his usual flair—has knocked over the salt again. A used tea towel, once a cape, lies crumpled and defeated by the fridge, bearing the battle scars of a noble but brief theatrical life. The toastie maker sits open like a discarded relic of war, congealed cheese still sizzling faintly in its grooves, steam curling upwards like ghostly applause. A butter knife balances dangerously on the rim of the sink, and somewhere near the toaster, a slice of tomato has somehow migrated and now clings to the counter as though trying to escape. The remains of your midnight feast sprawl across every available surface—mugs half full of cold tea, crumbs forming constellations across the laminate, and a cheese wrapper clinging desperately to the side of the bin like it knows its time is up.

You should clean. You both should. There are plates stacked high and dripping cheese, a trail of breadcrumbs leading across the counter like a map of indulgence, and two empty mugs abandoned beside the sink with tea bags still floating inside them. Grease glistens on the stove. A lonely crisp languishes beside the fridge. The room is steeped in the kind of domestic wreckage that would make your past selves laugh or cry or both. But Sirius is already melting into your lap.

Quite literally. He doesn't ask. He never does. He just makes this soft little hum of approval, the kind that makes your chest tighten in the best way, like the act of folding himself against you is as natural as breathing, as simple as blinking. One leg slides across yours with practiced ease; his arms wrap loosely around your shoulders, warm and slightly sticky with residual Dijon and syrupy laziness. His head drops to rest on your collarbone, nose brushing your neck, hair soft and faintly greasy from too many lazy days and late nights. He smells like toast, like smoke, like your shampoo because he refuses to buy his own and claims yours "smells like heaven with a hint of mischief."

You're still in your chair, angled just away from the table, one foot resting against the skirting board. Your arms find their way around him out of habit. One hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades, the other curling at his waist. He sighs against your throat, and it sounds like surrender. Like peace. Like the world beyond this moment can wait a little longer.

"We should probably tidy up," you murmur, though you make no move to shift.

Sirius snorts, the sound muffled by your skin. "Shh. The toastie gods frown upon movement after a sacred meal."

You smile. You can feel his grin against your collarbone, lazy and pleased with himself. He always does this after midnight—turns into something softer than he ever lets the rest of the world see. He talks nonsense, drapes himself across you like you're part of the furniture, whispers jokes and thoughts and truths that he might not remember come morning. There's something luminous in him at this hour, some strange clarity between the chaos and the calm.

His body is heavy and familiar against yours, heat pooling between you. You shift slightly, just enough to nestle closer, to let him know without words that he can stay. That you want him to. He adjusts, nuzzling his nose deeper into the curve of your neck, letting out a contented sound that makes your stomach flutter.

The kitchen light hums above you. Outside, the sky has begun to pale just slightly, the very first blue-grey hints of dawn teasing the edge of the windowsill. The city is still sleeping, wrapped in fog and silence. It's quiet now. The playlist has finished; the speaker long silent. Just you and him and the wreckage of your midnight masterpiece. And the feeling that time has bent a little around you.

His thumb traces idle circles at the nape of your neck. The motion is slow, thoughtless, and steady. Grounding. Like he's reminding himself that you're here. That this is real.

"D'you think toasties are magic?" he asks suddenly, not lifting his head. His voice is thick with sleep and comfort. "Like, proper magic. Like healing magic. Not 'abracadabra,' but something deeper. Like they carry some ancient domestic power."

You hum back. "They've healed worse."

He presses a kiss to your jaw, light and lazy, more breath than anything else. Then another to your cheek, and then he just stays there, lips resting against your skin, as though the act of being close to you is enough to keep him grounded. You feel the ghost of a smile tug at his mouth. He shifts a little, settling more heavily against you, as if melting into your shape.

"You're warm," he whispers.

"You're heavy."

"Rude."

Another kiss. This time to your collarbone. Then he nuzzles in closer, as though he could burrow beneath your skin and live there. Your hand curls a little tighter at his side. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breath, warm against your chest, syncing quietly with your own.

You don't move. Neither does he.

The silence stretches, thick and golden and full of everything you don't need to say out loud. The kind of silence that doesn't feel empty, but full of something wordless and deep. The kind that holds meaning.

A long pause. His breathing evens out. Then:

"I love us like this," he says.

It's soft. Matter-of-fact. No drama. No punchline. No theatrics. Just a truth slipped into the stillness like a secret he knows you'll keep. He doesn't lift his head, doesn't shift to look at you. He just lets the words land where they need to.

He says it like it's just something real. Like gravity. Or burnt toast. Or the way he always steals the duvet and denies it with a smirk. Like it's a law of nature: Sirius Black, chaotic, loud, ridiculous, and utterly in love with this. With now. With you. With crumbs on the counter and your legs under his.

You believe him.

Not because he says it all the time—he doesn't. Not really. He flirts like he breathes, teases without end, but when it comes to real things, important things, Sirius chooses his words like someone who knows what they cost. He throws jokes around like coins in a fountain but keeps the treasure close to his chest. He guards his heart with sarcasm and deflection, but he hands you these quiet truths like offerings. Like trust. Like someone holding out their palms in the dark and saying, here, this is everything.

So when he says this—when he says, "I love us like this," into your skin, into your stillness, into the space between your pulse and your breath—you believe him.

Because he means it. Every time.

Because he says it like it isn't new, but remembered. Like he's been waiting to find the words for something he's always known. Because he says it and doesn't expect anything in return. Because he says it with his whole body—folded against you, held in your arms, utterly present.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel it. All of it. The weight of him. The warmth of this room. The comfort of being known so well by someone so uncontainable. You think about every ridiculous thing that led to this night—the cravings, the dancing, the mess, the melted cheese—and how somehow it has all built to this exact moment.

And for all the crumbs, the mess, the candle wax dried onto the table and the fact that your kitchen now smells overwhelmingly of burnt cheese and over-toasted bread, you wouldn't change a thing. Because this—this messy, sleepy, absurd little moment—is yours.

And so is he.

For now. For later. For every absurd hour still to come. For every whispered truth and half-burnt candle and midnight snack. For every time he forgets to buy shampoo and steals yours instead. For every kiss that tastes like toast.

You tuck your nose into his hair, smile against his temple, and hold him a little closer.

Her wide eyes flick to yours—glassy, unsure—and you give her a soft smile that feels steadier than you are. For a second, she only stares, lips parted in uncertainty, then turns back to the sky as the red bloom fades into smoke.

"Boom," she says, breathy. Then, quieter: "P'etty."

You nod, heart easing, and stroke her back in slow, familiar circles. "That's right, baby. Just pretty booms." Her little hand clenches in the fabric of your top, anchoring herself to the sound of your voice, to your steady breath. You rock slightly, a gentle motion that soothes her and you alike, back and forth as the night settles in around you.

Next to you, Aaron shifts, the motion gentle. He tucks the blanket tighter around all of you, arm curling slightly around your shoulders, and Jack leans harder into his side with a grin stretched across his face like the sky itself has opened just for him. The thick summer air is filled with the scent of distant barbecue smoke and the faint hum of neighbourly chatter from balconies nearby. Somewhere a radio plays something soft and slow, barely audible under the sudden hush that follows the firework's echo. In the street below, laughter rises—brief and bright—and the golden haze of porch lights makes the whole block feel suspended in something dreamy and slow.

Jack shifts again to look up at Aaron, eyes bright. "That one was red," he says excitedly, bouncing a little where he sits. "Right? Like, really red."

"Yeah," Aaron agrees, voice quiet but warm. "Really red. Think the next one'll be blue?"

Jack hums like he's calculating it, nose scrunched in concentration, then turns back to the sky like he might divine the answer from the dark. You take the moment to reach for the soft earmuffs resting beside you. They're pale yellow, padded thickly, and still warm from where Aaron had handed them over earlier with that quiet kind of thoughtfulness that always stirs something in your chest. The kind of consideration that doesn't announce itself, that never makes you feel like a burden. Just something he does. Just because it might help.

"Sweetheart," you whisper, turning Lottie slightly so she can see them. "Want to wear your muffs? Just in case it gets too loud?"

She blinks up at you, face still flushed with the aftershock, then nods solemnly and lifts her head enough to let you settle them into place. She touches one with a small hand once they're on, then turns her face back up toward the sky, mouth slightly open, like she's trying to see with more than just her eyes. Her bunny shifts under her chin with the movement, its soft ears brushing your arm.

The next firework screams upward and bursts into a scatter of blue and silver, quieter than the first but still sharp. Lottie flinches, shoulders lifting—but she doesn't cry. She doesn't bury her face or drop her bunny. She just leans closer into your chest, watching. Her eyes catch the light and for a second, you see nothing but wonder reflected there. Her lips move around the shape of the colours like she's tasting them. Her feet stretch out a little, pressing gently against your legs, toes curling in fascination.

"Blue!" Jack crows. "See, told you!"

"Boo," Lottie echoes, her voice muffled slightly beneath the earmuffs. She holds up one finger, then giggles. "One boo."

Jack turns toward her with that six-year-old beam of pure joy. "You got it, Lottie! Let's count the next one too, okay?"

She nods, eyes wide, bunny squashed tight beneath her chin. Her body, once tense, is now relaxed against you, knees splayed comfortably across your lap as she settles back in. She bounces a little with the excitement, not quite understanding the rhythm of the show but delighted by the spectacle nonetheless. Her fingers drum against the side of her bunny in time with each new burst.

You let your head tip slightly, resting against Aaron's shoulder. He's warm, solid—his presence grounding even in silence. The low hum of his breath syncs with yours, and when he turns his head to look at you, there's a softness in his expression that knots something in your throat. Tired eyes, kind eyes. A smile barely there, but it's real.

"Thanks for picking those up," you murmur, fingertips brushing the edge of Lottie's earmuffs.

"Didn't want her scared," he says simply, like it was obvious. "She's doing great."

"She is." Your eyes don't leave Lottie's face, her awe painted so plainly across it as a green firework explodes overhead. "So's Jack."

"Jack's having the time of his life," Aaron says with a quiet chuckle. "I don't think I've ever seen him sit still this long."

You smile, eyes drifting between them. "Magic of fireworks," you say, then glance sideways at him. "Or maybe the magic of getting to share it."

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his hand shifts where it rests behind you, fingers brushing lightly over your upper arm before slipping back beneath the blanket. His knee nudges yours under the blanket—just a soft press, deliberate. You lean into it without thinking, letting the closeness speak for itself.

"Geen," Lottie whispers, almost reverent, her hand pointing up without lifting her head. "Boom... geen."

Jack mimics her, his voice louder but no less thrilled. "Green! That one looked like a flower."

Lottie repeats, "Fow'er boom." Then: "Air'n, more?"

Aaron smiles, and it changes the whole shape of his face. "Yeah, sweet girl. I think there'll be lots more."

"Lots," Jack agrees confidently. "There's still loads in the box. Maybe we'll see a purple one next!"

"Puh-puh," Lottie whispers, like the word is some kind of wish.

Your hand settles over Lottie's leg, fingers gently tracing the fabric of her sleepsuit, grounding yourself in the feel of her. Her breathing is steady now, rhythmic. She isn't just tolerating the noise—she's enjoying it. Secure enough to look beyond the sound, beyond the fear. Secure enough to share this moment, this strange little liminal space between noise and beauty and comfort, between past worry and something like trust.

Aaron looks at you again, and this time you meet his gaze without looking away. There's something rich and quiet between you, something not spoken aloud but understood nonetheless. You don't need the fireworks to feel it. You feel it in the shape of the night wrapped around the four of you. In the press of his arm, the weight of your daughter in your lap, the murmur of Jack's voice beside you.

You see it in the way Lottie reaches across you for Aaron's hand and he takes it without hesitation, cradling her tiny fingers gently in his much larger ones. His thumb brushes gently over her knuckles like it's the most natural thing in the world, like it's something he's always done. Jack watches it happen, then gives you both a quiet, knowing smile before turning his eyes back to the sky.

"I like this," Jack says suddenly, thoughtfully. "Us all here. It feels... nice."

You glance at Aaron, surprised, but he's already looking at you, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the back of Lottie's hand. He nods slightly, like he knows what you're thinking, like he's been thinking it too.

"Me too, buddy," he says, voice low. "Feels like home."

The blanket shifts as he moves a little closer, pulling it higher around Lottie's back and your shoulders. The warmth settles deeper into your bones. The gentle ache of the day—the tension in your legs, the usual fatigue curling in your spine—is dulled by it. By him. By this. By the lull of children content, the hush between explosions, the flicker of something that feels astonishingly close to peace.

Lottie yawns, sudden and wide, her whole body curling slightly as she does, like a cat folding in on itself. Her little fingers tighten around Aaron's instinctively, her grip still clumsy but full of sleepy insistence, and her cheek nuzzles against the top of her bunny's head. Another firework blossoms above in soft, shimmering pink, its reflection caught in the curve of her half-lidded eyes.

"Pink!" Jack says immediately, still wide-eyed with excitement, voice sharp and delighted over the hushed hush of the night.

"Pih," Lottie echoes, quieter now, her voice caught in a yawn, the syllable stretched and rounded with drowsiness. She blinks slowly, heavily, like each flutter of her lashes takes effort, curls rustling softly against your collarbone as she shifts in your lap, one leg stretching lazily out beneath the blanket.

Aaron turns to you again, his voice even softer than before, as if speaking too loud might tip her over the edge into sleep—or wake her from the almost-dream she's drifting in. "Think she's getting sleepy."

You nod, your lips curving with affection as you glance down at the heavy warmth of her in your lap, her bunny crushed beneath her chin, one thumb inching lazily toward her mouth before hesitating. "She'll fight it, though. Not missing a single 'boom' if she can help it."

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, not unkind. "She's stubborn," he says, and when you look at him, the fondness written across his face is luminous—an open kind of admiration, gentle and amused and absolutely smitten.

You smirk, brushing her curls back from her forehead with careful fingers, your knuckles brushing lightly along the curve of her temple. "Wonder where she gets that," you murmur, though the answer lingers between you, obvious in the way Aaron's eyes soften further.

Lottie hums, almost to herself, somewhere between pleased and peaceful, her lashes finally settling low. She shifts once more, resettling into you with a sigh, and though another firework goes up—this one bright white and slow—she only stirs a little, her grip on Aaron's fingers loosening just slightly, not quite letting go.

Later, when the final firework fades and the last of the neighbourhood cheers drift into silence, you ease the balcony door shut behind you with a soft click, careful not to disturb the sleeping children. The hush that follows feels thick and sacred, like the world has exhaled all at once and now waits, holding its breath. The air still holds the warmth of the day, thick and slow, clinging to your skin like a worn blanket, but the night breeze has picked up just enough to bring relief. It kisses your cheeks, ruffles your clothes, lifts the curls at your nape. You step barefoot onto the darkened terrace, the familiar creak of the wooden boards grounding you, anchoring you to the quiet magic of your own space. There's a weight in the air, not heavy, but full. Settled.

The sky overhead is darker now, emptied of the showy colours that lit it up earlier, left only with the deep, velvety glow of stars slowly reclaiming their hold. They peek through the faint haze of smoke like old friends returning, unhurried, unfazed. The moon hangs low, wide and lazy, casting a silvery wash across rooftops and windowpanes. You can still smell the remnants of summer celebration: distant sparklers, the char of someone's barbecue, the subtle sweetness of cut grass and spent heat.

Further down the street, the last threads of a party unravel: a screen door creaks, someone laughs too loud and then quieter, music thuds faintly—then fades. A dog barks once, twice, and then silence returns, complete and total.

You draw in a breath and let it out slowly. This is the sort of moment you never used to have. Not just the stillness, but the safety within it. The sense of presence. Of company. Of knowing that the quiet won't be broken by absence. The kind of peace that lives not in solitude, but in the echo of someone else's breath.

Behind you, soft footfalls. The sound of someone moving through your space like they belong. Aaron steps out, slow and sure, a blanket folded over one arm, two glasses of water in the other. He looks at home here, in the dim glow spilling from the kitchen, his hair tousled, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up. You've never seen him look so at ease. He meets your eyes and smiles, and just like that, your whole body relaxes.

"Jack's out cold," he murmurs as he sets the glasses down. "Didn't even make it to the end of the bedtime story. I was reading to him and looked up to find him already snoring."

You let out a low chuckle, easing yourself down into the chair with a soft sigh. Your joints ache, not sharply but in that dull, familiar way they do at the end of a long day. Aaron doesn't comment, doesn't reach to help. He knows you—knows when to offer, when to let you move at your pace. Your cane is propped against the wall beside you. Unused, but near.

"Lottie didn't last much longer," you say. "She was asleep before I even left the room. I tucked her bunny in beside her and she didn't even stir."

Aaron spreads the blanket across your laps, his movements practiced now. He sits beside you, close enough that your knees bump, and his thigh presses warm against yours. He shifts the fabric so it covers your feet, then leans back with a quiet exhale. "They're getting used to this," he says after a beat. "Like it's already part of their normal."

You nod, your head tipping gently against his shoulder. "It's only been a couple of months, but it already feels like it's been forever. Like we've always done this—fireworks, bedtime, the two of them asleep in the other room, and us out here like this."

His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers sliding between yours with the ease of habit. "It feels like something they trust," he says. "Like we've built something they believe in."

You turn to look at him, your thumb stroking the side of his hand. "I believe in it too."

He looks at you like he hears every word you haven't spoken yet. Like he sees the whole picture—not just this night, but all the moments before and all the ones still to come. "Me too," he says.

You smile softly, then let your gaze drop for a moment, grounding yourself in the quiet touch of him. His hand is warm, his breathing steady. "Thank you," you whisper. "For staying. For showing up. For making space for us."

Aaron leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, long and lingering. "You never have to thank me for that," he murmurs. "I want to be here. With you. With both of them. Every part of it."

Your knees shift to face him under the blanket. Your other hand rises to rest on his chest, where his heart beats slow and steady beneath your palm. It grounds you in a way you didn't know you needed until it was already yours. He holds your gaze as your fingers curl against the fabric of his shirt.

"I like having you here," you say. "Not just for them. For me."

He doesn't answer with words this time. He leans in and kisses you, soft and slow, lips pressing to yours with the kind of surety that makes your chest ache. It's a kiss full of knowing, of shared quiets, of late-night routines and early-morning starts and everything in between. His hand rises to cradle your face, thumb sweeping a slow arc across your cheekbone, steady and reverent.

When you part, you stay close. Your foreheads touch, and your breaths mingle. You don't need to say anything else. It's all there, in the closeness. In the stillness that holds you both.

He shifts to draw you nearer, wrapping his arm around your back as you fold into his side, your body curving instinctively toward his. His mouth brushes the crown of your head, and you sigh at the feel of it. Safe. Held.

His other hand stays twined with yours beneath the blanket, fingers interlocked like anchors. You sit like that for a long time, not speaking, just breathing. Just being. The moon arcs higher, casting a soft silver glow across the space. The city quiets even further. You trace lazy shapes against the back of his hand, and he presses kisses into your hair like punctuation.

"Do you ever think about what this might look like in a year?" you ask eventually, voice nearly lost to the breeze.

He's quiet a moment, considering. His thumb moves against yours in slow circles. "Sometimes," he says. "But mostly I try to stay here. Right now. Because this? This is already more than I thought I'd ever get again."

You nod, your heart full. "Me too."

He kisses you again. Not to start something. Just because he can. Just because he wants to. Just because you're here.

When he pulls back, you rest your head on his shoulder again, your eyes fluttering closed as the night folds itself gently around you. No rush. No pressure. Just this.

"Stay out here a bit longer?" you murmur.

His lips graze your hairline. "As long as you want."

So you stay. Wrapped in the warmth of shared blankets and the deeper warmth of each other. The hush after the fireworks. The echo of children sleeping soundly inside. The memory of laughter, the promise of morning, the certainty of this moment.

And in that quiet corner of your world, where the stars blink gently overhead and love stretches soft and sure between you, the future doesn't feel distant or fragile.

It feels real.

It feels close.

You ride Aaron like it matters.

Like your body was carved for this. Like the shape of him inside you is the only truth that ever made sense. Hips rolling in long, indulgent circles, deliberate and hungry, you drag yourself over him with aching precision. The thick heat of him stretches you open with every grind down, forcing little, broken moans from your throat—his too. He's deep. So deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You feel every twitch, every throb, every sharp stab of pleasure as you take him to the hilt and rock there, slow and filthy.

Your thighs ache already, sore in the way that promises more later. The sheets are damp beneath your knees, slick with sweat and arousal, and the air in the room is thick—humid with heat and breath and the sharp, salty tang of sex. You brace your palms on his chest, fingers curling against muscle, using him for leverage as you grind down harder, circling your hips in a slow, obscene rhythm that leaves both of you gasping.

He groans, a low, needy sound that coils heat in your belly. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing. Every time you lift your hips and drop back down, slick and messy, it knocks the breath from your lungs. You feel it everywhere—between your legs, yes, but also up your spine, down your thighs, into your fingertips. It's too much and not enough. Your pace quickens without thought.

His hands are locked on your hips, anchoring you. Possessive. Like he could disappear if he lets go. Fingers sink into the softness of your flesh, painting bruises into your skin that you'll wear like badges tomorrow. And the way he's looking at you—hungry, reverent, like you're something divine—makes you clench around him, makes your rhythm stutter.

"You're perfect," Aaron breathes. His voice is low and rough, thick with awe and something softer beneath. His eyes, dark and burning, roam you greedily—chest rising and falling in frantic waves, the flush spreading across your skin, the sharp little gasps you can't hold back as you fuck yourself on him.

His hands roam too—leave your hips to trail up, palms hot and wide as they chart your ribs, your sternum, the curve of your breasts. Thumbs brush your nipples, dragging a sharp whine from your throat. You arch into the contact instinctively, chasing more.

"Fuck, look at you."

And you do. You meet his eyes, shameless, vulnerable, mouth parted as you ride the edge. You feel split open by him—by the stretch, by the heat, by the emotion burning in his gaze. Every grind of your hips is desperate now, sloppy and soaked. The sound of it—skin against skin, wet and rhythmic—fills the space between you. You're trembling from the effort, from the overwhelming pressure building low in your belly.

Your body is on fire. Every inch of skin is electric. You're flushed and wild, panting, trembling from the strain. Sweat beads along your collarbone. The room spins slightly with every bounce. Your muscles burn. Your hips stutter. He watches like you're a miracle. Like he might die if he blinks and misses a second. And you feed off that worship, feel it in your bloodstream, pulsing alongside your racing heart.

"Just like that," he groans, breath hitching. His grip tightens again, grounding you as you speed up, chasing that perfect angle. He's helping now, lifting into you with every thrust, pushing deeper, harder. "Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight, so wet—don't stop."

You're not sure you could if you tried. The heat is unbearable, exquisite. It coils tighter, pleasure licking up your spine like fire. Your thighs ache, shaking, your breath catching with every bounce. He hits that spot inside you over and over until you're choking on your moans, your vision blurring.

His hands are everywhere—waist, ribs, breasts—touching like he can't decide where he needs you most. His lips part to speak, but all that comes out is a gasp, a helpless sound of need—

And then it happens.

A sickening pop.

Pain detonates in your hip like a grenade. Blinding, sudden, white-hot and jagged. Your entire body seizes, breath torn from your lungs, and then you collapse forward with a strangled cry, arms giving out as you fall onto his chest.

Aaron freezes.

"What was that?" he demands instantly, voice taut with fear, hands already wrapping around you, holding you steady.

You bury your face in his neck, teeth clenched against the pain that's now radiating outward in waves. Your fingers clutch at his shoulder like he's the only thing tethering you to the world.

"Hip," you whisper, breath broken. "Popped out."

"Fuck."

He moves carefully, instinctively. His cock slips free as he shifts, steadying you, guiding you off him like you're made of glass. Every movement is deliberate, gentle, calculated. He lays you back on the bed like you're sacred.

The loss is jarring—physically, emotionally. Emptiness throbs beneath the sharp, screaming pain of the dislocation. Your hip pulses with fire, nerves alight and screaming. You try to breathe through it, but your chest feels tight, your jaw locked in a grimace. The pain makes your vision swim.

Aaron kneels between your legs, calm despite the tight line of his jaw. His hands hover for a moment, then find their place—one steady beneath your thigh, the other braced near your knee, careful not to jar the joint.

He's done this before. Too many times. He knows the angles, the pressure, the rhythm of your body even in crisis. He knows what this costs you. You watch him through a veil of tears—unfallen, stubborn, clinging to the corners of your eyes—and he meets your gaze like it's the only thing that matters.

"Breathe, sweetheart. I've got you."

You nod, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Your eyes squeeze shut. The pain is sharp, nauseating, but you know what comes next. You've done this dance before too.

You brace. His hand supports your thigh as you inhale through your nose, slow and shaky. Your fingers scrabble for the sheet, bunching it tight in your fist. Every breath feels like sandpaper in your throat. You count it in your head. One. Two. Three.

Then—

You shift your leg outward, angling your knee to the side. The joint screams. The socket resists. Your muscles twitch involuntarily. You pause. Reposition. Grit your teeth harder. The room spins for a second. You focus on Aaron's steady touch, his warm hand anchoring you.

Aaron steadies you without a word, eyes locked on your face, watching every flicker of pain.

You twist your pelvis, draw your thigh back, rotate the joint—and then, with one fluid, horrible push—

pop.

The joint slides back into place with a revolting clunk that you feel in your teeth. Relief comes like a flood—hot, dizzying, wild. You cry out, not from pain, but from the shift, the drop in pressure, the sudden, brutal reprieve.

It makes you lightheaded. The aftershocks of pain still ripple down your leg, but it's manageable now. Bearable. The worst is over.

You collapse back against the mattress, chest heaving, limbs shaking. Sweat drips down your temples, cold against overheated skin. Your heart races like it's trying to escape your chest. Your hand remains twisted in the sheet, knuckles white.

Aaron is still there, steady, unflinching. His hand is still beneath your thigh, warm and anchoring. You're shaking. Trembling. But you're breathing.

The worst of the pain recedes slowly, like a tide pulling back from jagged rocks. It doesn't vanish—not entirely—but it dulls, easing from a blinding scream to a throbbing ache, bearable in its familiarity. Your breath still catches on the aftershocks, chest rising and falling in uneven stutters, body limp on the mattress. A fine sheen of sweat clings to your skin, drying slowly as the room begins to cool, though the air between you both still hums with heat. The sheets beneath you are damp and tangled, twisted from tension and release, and your limbs feel too heavy to move. But your body is still buzzing—raw and open, awareness sharp and humming like static beneath your skin.

Aaron doesn't move.

He remains exactly where he is, nestled between your legs like he was placed there with purpose and permanence. His hands stay warm and steady, resting just above your knees, thumbs drawing slow, absent-minded circles that calm your racing nerves even as they ignite something low and deep in your belly. His gaze lingers on your face, focused and intent, tracking every flicker of expression. He watches you with a kind of sacred stillness, as if afraid to break the moment, but not because of fear—because of reverence.

His touch changes as your body softens beneath him. His fingers trail inward, brushing over the delicate inner curve of your thigh, barely-there contact that sends a fresh wave of shivers over your skin. It's not teasing. It's a reminder. I see you. You're safe. I know how to hold you. And I want to.

"You alright?"

The question is gentle, quiet, but it slices through the fog in your head like a blade. You nod. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of nod that carries weight, that says yes—but just barely. You bite your bottom lip and he watches the motion like it hurts. Like it lights something dangerous inside him.

His expression changes. The softness in his eyes turns molten.

Then he bends.

At first, you think he's going to kiss your knee, or maybe your hip—something sweet, easy, just enough to soothe. But instead, his mouth lowers to your stomach, lips warm and open just above your navel. He exhales against your skin. You twitch. His mouth drags downward.

"Then let me make it up to you," he murmurs, voice low and rough, the words pressed into your skin like a vow.

The promise thrums through your bones. Heavy. Certain. Inevitable.

Aaron lowers himself between your legs, deliberate and slow. He presses kisses into your skin like stepping stones, a path down your stomach, over your hips, and across the sharp jut of bone to the softest part of your thigh. Every touch is slow. Every breath is felt. When he finally settles between your legs, it's not with hunger—it's with awe. With focus. With intent.

He braces your thigh with one hand, lifting gently to open you further. The other hand presses into your hip, firm and grounding, keeping you right where he wants you. There's no urgency in his touch. No frantic heat. Just purpose.

Worship.

His nose brushes the crease of your thigh. He hums against your skin, and the vibration echoes through your pelvis. "You're still so wet," he breathes. It's almost reverent. "You don't even know what you do to me."

His lips find your thigh first. Slow, lingering kisses. Little nips of teeth. His stubble scrapes softly over your skin, just enough to make you gasp. He kisses closer to your centre, then back to the curve of your thigh. He's taking his time. He's making you feel it.

"You don't have to—" you whisper, voice unsteady.

He pauses just long enough to look up at you. His eyes are molten, pupils blown wide. "I want to," he says, voice hoarse. "I want to taste every part of you. Let me."

Then he does.

His mouth finds your core, tongue parting your folds with slow, greedy reverence. He licks you like he's starved. Like you're the only thing that's ever satisfied him. The first long stroke of his tongue makes your back arch, your breath catch, your hands fist in the sheets.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. His tongue explores you slowly, thoroughly, as if relearning every part of you, like you're something new and sacred. His nose presses against your clit with every stroke, and the faint sound of his breath, damp and hungry, only adds to the heat flooding your belly. He hums into you, a sound of satisfaction, like you're exactly where he wants to be.

You moan. A soft, broken thing. Your hips try to rise, but he holds you down, strong hands pinning your thighs open. You are completely at his mercy.

"Fuck, baby," he groans against you. "You taste like sin."

Your whole body tingles. Every flick of his tongue is calculated, devastating. Every kiss, every suction of his lips, every slow press of his mouth leaves you breathless. He kisses your clit softly, then sucks, then circles it with the tip of his tongue. Over and over. Until you're shaking. Until your toes curl. Until your thighs threaten to close around his head and still he doesn't stop.

He doesn't even reach for himself. You know how hard he is—you can see it, pressed against the mattress, ignored. He doesn't care. He's not here for that. He's here for you. For your sounds. For your pleasure. For your unraveling.

You whimper. He groans.

His hand moves, sliding up your belly, splaying over your ribs, then brushing higher until his palm is flat just below your chest, holding you down as if to say: Stay right here. Let me do this for you.

"Such a good girl," he whispers, between strokes of his tongue. "So responsive. So perfect. You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are like this."

The pleasure spirals. Your thighs are shaking. Your lungs are burning. Your voice is hoarse from all the sounds he's dragged from your throat. His lips move faster, tongue flicking rhythmically, dragging you closer, closer—

Your back arches. Your fingers twist in the sheets. You gasp his name, again and again, helpless against the wave building inside you.

And then he speaks again.

"Come for me, sweetheart. Let me taste it. Give it to me."

You break.

Pleasure explodes in your body. You cry out, back arching, fingers clawing at the sheets as everything sharpens and then shatters. His mouth never leaves you. He moans against your cunt as you come, tongue relentless, drinking you in like he's been dying for it.

You pulse against his mouth. Your whole body trembles. You can't breathe.

Still, he doesn't stop.

Even as your thighs twitch, even as you gasp for air, even as tears prick the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of it—he keeps going. Keeps licking. Keeps groaning. He pulls you through it, past it, into something else entirely. It's not just pleasure anymore. It's surrender. It's a kind of devotion.

Only when your moans turn to sobs and your hips start to jerk away does he finally, finally pull back.

He rises slowly, like surfacing from deep water. His lips are slick. His eyes are black with hunger and reverence. He presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh one last time—soft, slow, affectionate.

And then he looks at you, like you are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He climbs up beside you without hesitation, like he's been waiting to return to this place—curled around you, pressed close, every inch of him radiating heat and care. The bed shifts beneath him as he moves, slow and measured, each movement intentional, reverent. His hand brushes your hip as he eases in close, not for balance, not anymore, but for connection. Like touching you is as instinctual as breathing, like his body knows yours by memory alone, like it's muscle-deep, marrow-deep, this need to be next to you.

His lips find the corner of your mouth—soft and lingering, a touch so gentle it makes your chest ache. He doesn't rush. Doesn't try to deepen it. It's just presence. It's just him, reminding you wordlessly: I'm here. I've got you. That simple, aching contact grounds you in the moment. It anchors you to him, to the safety of his body and the heat in his eyes. There's a stillness in the kiss, something reverent. Something that hums low and deep in your chest.

He tucks you into his side like something precious, something he wants to shield from the world. One arm wraps around your shoulders, firm and warm, anchoring you there, pulling you into his gravity. The other lifts to trace the line of your cheek, his fingers skimming the curve of your jaw with the kind of tenderness that lives in the silence between breaths. His thumb ghosts over your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you, like he can't believe you're still here and still his. You lean into his palm, eyes fluttering closed, letting yourself feel the full weight of his care.

"Still alright?" he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing yours like a secret only you're meant to hear.

You nod, breath catching again, voice hushed. "Yeah."

The word is barely there, but the effect on him is immediate. Relief softens every hard edge of his face. His shoulders sag like he's been holding tension for hours, maybe days. He leans into you just a little more, his forehead brushing yours, and exhales like he's been holding that breath since the moment your hip gave out. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your nose, everywhere but your mouth, like he's trying to map you with his lips, like the act of kissing is a form of reassurance—for you and for him.

Then he moves.

It's subtle. A shift in the angle of his hips. A realignment of his body with yours. His hand, broad and sure, slides down your side, across your stomach, and then lower—guiding your hand between your bodies with quiet insistence. No pressure. Just presence. Just a soft nudge toward what he needs. What he wants from you. And even then, it's not about taking. It's about the ache that's been building, the trust layered in his silence.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. The ask is written in the heat of his skin, the pulse under his jaw, the way his cock presses hard and insistent against your thigh. It's aching, twitching, utterly neglected—and he hasn't said a word about it. Because he's been too busy taking care of you. Because you always come first.

Your fingers wrap around him, and the sound he makes is barely human.

A choked, guttural groan rips from his throat like it's been building inside him all night. His whole body shudders against yours. He's hot. Slick. Sticky from being inside you. Your slick, your bodies mingled, still clinging to him. You stroke him slow, lazy, your thumb dragging over the head to gather more of it before gliding back down his shaft. His hips twitch into your hand instinctively.

"Yeah, baby," he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. His voice is shaky, strained. "Just like that."

His voice is rough. Raw. Like it's scraped from somewhere deep. His hips twitch again, but he holds himself back, muscles trembling from the effort. You can feel the tension in him, the tight coil of need threatening to snap. His teeth sink into his lower lip, his brow furrowed like he's trying to hold on.

You keep your grip firm and steady, your strokes smooth and tight. He thrusts into your fist with trembling restraint, muscles coiled tight beneath his skin, jaw clenched like he's holding himself back with everything he has. You can see the way he's trying to stay in control, but it's unraveling fast. There's a sweat-slick sheen to his skin now, glowing under the low light of the room.

But his eyes never leave yours.

He watches your face like you're the only thing keeping him grounded. Like he's tethering himself to this moment, to you. And you can see him falling apart by inches—his control fraying with every flick of your wrist, every wet slide of skin on skin. The way he breathes your name, again and again, like a prayer. Like a confession. Like you're his absolution.

His arm tightens around your shoulders, drawing you closer until there's no space left between your bodies. His free hand trails over your side, your ribs, your waist, then down, mapping you in return. Every inch he touches feels like a vow. He rests his palm over your heart, thumb stroking your skin, like he's anchoring himself there, like your heartbeat is the only thing holding him together.

You kiss him again, slow and deep, tongues brushing lazily as you stroke him. He groans into your mouth, every sound vibrating through both of you. He murmurs your name again, broken and reverent, like it's the only word that matters.

"That's it," he pants, lips brushing against yours. "Fuck, you feel so good—your hand, your mouth, your body—I can't—Jesus—"

He presses his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut. His breathing goes ragged, hips jerking, the tension in his thighs winding tighter with every second. His skin is flushed, his body burning against yours. You feel every tremble, every laboured breath, every heartbeat thudding hard against his chest.

"I love your hands," he gasps, voice strained. "The things you do to me… fuck, you're gonna ruin me."

You don't speed up. You don't change pace. You just hold him like you mean it, stroking him in long, slow pulls that leave him trembling. Every muscle in his body is locked tight. You feel him shake. You feel him struggle not to lose himself too fast. You feel how much he wants to give in, and how hard he's working to stay here with you, in this moment. You whisper his name. You kiss the edge of his jaw. You let him feel how loved he is.

And then—he shatters.

He spills across your skin with a ragged, helpless moan, hot and messy, his hips stuttering as he falls apart in your hand. His fingers dig into your back, grounding himself, holding on. He's panting. Groaning. Eyes shut tight. And then his mouth is on yours again.

The kiss is different now.

It's everything.

It's devotion. Worship. Gratitude. Every unspoken word he's never known how to say, pressed into your lips like a secret. You taste his exhale, the quiet tremble of his release, the way he pours himself into the space between you. There's nothing frantic or hurried in the way he kisses you—it's soft. Sacred. Like you're holy in his mouth.

He kisses you through it—through the peak, through the twitch of overstimulated muscles, through the lingering tremble in his thighs. His release marks your belly, your hand, and still he stays close, breathing you in like he needs you to live. His chest rises and falls against yours, rapid at first, then slowly beginning to settle.

His breath fans across your cheek. His fingers curl in your hair. His arm stays firm around your shoulders, never loosening. His mouth brushes yours again, softer now, less urgency, more wonder. More gratitude.

Your heart is a wild, galloping thing. A thunderstorm in your ribcage. You can't catch your breath. You fumble for the lamp switch, but your fingers are shaking too hard to grip it, knuckles knocking against wood, nails scraping the table's edge. It feels like you've slipped through the floorboards of the world into a memory your brain insists on replaying. Everything is too loud—the blood rushing in your ears, the creak of floorboards beneath your feet, the whisper of your own ragged breaths. The texture of the sheets on your skin is unbearable. Your limbs feel boneless, but too tense. You're vibrating, trapped in a body that won't obey, won't listen. You can't see straight. You can't think straight. All you know is you need to be somewhere else—anywhere else.

The corner calls to you. It always does, when the world tilts like this. You stumble toward it, one hand pressed to your chest as if that will keep your heart from bursting out. You slide down the wall, curling into yourself, knees to chest, arms around your legs. The plaster is cool and steady against your back. A boundary. A barrier. You press against it like you could melt into it, disappear into the paint and drywall. Become part of the room, silent and unseen. The room's darkness presses in around you, but it's a different kind of dark than before—emptier, heavier. Every breath you take feels like it passes through a sieve of broken glass.

You know where you are. The bedroom. Home. Safe. Your things surround you: the books on the shelf, the familiar coat draped over the chair, the faint scent of detergent on the duvet. You know this space like the back of your hand. But your body doesn't believe you. It screams danger, danger, danger. Your instincts override your intellect. Everything rational dissolves under the weight of panic.

Your skin crawls, hairs rising as though sensing a threat that isn't there. Every cell of you is screaming run, hide, survive. The echo of that door slamming loops in your head, louder now, sharper, like it's happening over and over again. You want to claw it out. You want to scream. You want to vanish. You bite down on the inside of your cheek instead, fists clenched so tightly your nails dig crescent moons into your palms. You try to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. But it's shallow and frantic, like you're drowning in air. Your diaphragm won't loosen. Your chest aches. You can feel your pulse in your gums, in your throat, behind your eyes.

You can't think past the panic. The edges of your vision blur and warp, darkness creeping in at the corners. Your ears ring with static. You remember, distantly, that this is a flashback, a response, a trauma echo—but knowing that doesn't fix it. You're still trapped. You're still shaking. You are both here and not here. You are the trembling creature in the corner and the younger version of yourself hiding beneath a bed in another city, in another life. Your breath hitches. The tears you've been holding back threaten to rise, but you refuse to let them fall. You're already this far gone—you won't give your panic that victory.

You lose track of time. Seconds stretch into eternities. The air feels too thick to breathe, like you're underwater. Your fingernails dig deeper into your skin. The corners of your vision pulse with light. You can't stop rocking. You can't stop scanning the dark as if something will emerge from it. Everything hurts. Your memories crash into your present, blurring the boundary between then and now.

And then you hear it.

The gentle rustle of blankets. The soft whisper of skin on sheets. The subtle weight shift of the mattress as he moves. The sounds of someone else alive in the space with you, measured and calm. Something in the air shifts. You feel it like a change in pressure—something warmer, steadier.

Aaron.

His footsteps are soft, deliberate. No sudden movements, no loud sounds. He knows. Of course he knows. He always does. You hear the quiet pad of his bare feet on the hardwood, the shift in the air as he rounds the bed. You hear him kneel before you see him, feel the way the floor changes with the added presence of his weight. The silence he brings is different. It isn't empty—it's watchful. Protective. He doesn't speak. He never speaks straight away. Doesn't flood the moment with words you're not ready to hear. Instead, he lowers himself down, slow and careful, until he's seated beside you on the floor.

He doesn't reach for you. Just sets his hand palm-down on the floor between you. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him radiating into the air. A silent offering. A tether, if you want it. You can almost feel the pulse in his palm, slow and steady, anchoring. You stare at it for a long moment, that quiet gesture. Your throat tightens further. Your shoulders shake harder.

You can't lift your head. You can't look at him. But you can hear him breathe—slow and steady, deep enough for you to track it if you try. Inhale. Exhale. That rhythm, familiar and grounding, pulls at something frayed in your chest. A rope tossed into the storm. You count the seconds between each breath. You listen for the soft whisper of his nose as he exhales. Each one is a lighthouse through fog. Each one is proof that you're not alone.

"You're safe," he murmurs, voice low and even, like he's speaking to a skittish animal. There's no pity in it. No urgency. Just calm. "It was just a door. Not here. Nothing's coming. You're safe."

The words barely register. Your body is still caught in the freeze, nerves firing like there's danger all around you. Muscles locked, teeth clenched so tight your jaw aches. You don't trust your own voice to respond, don't even know if you could make a sound if you tried. But you tilt your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. The dim light outlines the slope of his shoulder, the line of his jaw. Familiar. Unthreatening. Real. And you feel something loosen, infinitesimally, like the first sign of thaw in a long, brutal winter.

He's not watching you. He's gazing ahead, at the far wall, legs folded beneath him, spine straight but not tense. Like he's settled in for as long as it takes. Like he's prepared to wait you out, hold this space until you can come back to yourself. One hand rests on the floor. The other rests lightly on his knee, fingers curling and uncurling with quiet patience. There is no rush in him. No timeline. Only presence. Only the kind of silence that speaks louder than reassurance ever could.

"You're not alone," he says after a while, softer this time. "I'm right here."

His fingers twitch once, a subtle motion on the floor between you. Still not reaching. Still waiting.

"I've got you," he adds, nearly inaudible. "Whenever you're ready."

You press your forehead to your knees, eyes squeezed shut. The nausea hasn't passed. The shaking hasn't stopped. The panic is still thick in your lungs, but somewhere beneath it—under the chaos, the noise, the crashing waves—there's a thread of quiet. His breathing. His presence. His warmth. It doesn't erase the fear. But it draws a line in the sand: the storm might rage, but you are not alone in it.

Later, once you're back in bed, the silence has changed. It's thicker now, but no longer threatening—blanketing, almost. Protective. It wraps around the two of you like a soft cocoon, broken only by the low, rhythmic whisper of the wind against the windows and the quiet cadence of Aaron's breathing beneath your ear. The shadows on the ceiling are just shadows again, not tricks of the mind, not memories clawing their way into the present. And the thrum in your chest, though still present, no longer feels like it's going to rip you apart. It lingers, yes, but its edges have dulled. Your heart hasn't returned fully to its resting place, but it no longer beats like a warning siren.

You lie there, curled into the warmth of him, your breath gradually syncing with his in a rhythm so familiar it's almost sacred. There's a stillness to the space between you, but it's not empty—not even close. It's full of unspoken things. The weight of fear still curls in your belly, a shadow refusing to let go completely, but it's softened now, like it knows it's outnumbered. This bed, this room, these arms—these are the constants that have begun, slowly, to teach your body what safety feels like. That it isn't always fleeting. That sometimes it stays. That not everything leaves.

Your head rests against Aaron's chest, and the steady rhythm of his heart becomes your anchor. It pulses beneath your cheek like a lullaby without music, just truth. Steady. Constant. You're still trembling faintly, the kind of aftershock that trails a storm, but the worst of the panic has ebbed, pulled back like the tide. Your body aches with the tension it carried. There's fatigue in your bones that wasn't there before, a weight to your limbs like you've run for miles without moving an inch. The kind of exhaustion that's more soul-deep than physical, the kind that leaves you aching in places no one else can see. Your fingers twitch as you start to relax, just enough to unclench. Just enough to notice how tightly you'd been holding yourself.

Aaron's hand moves in slow, gentle circles against your bare shoulder, fingertips barely skimming your skin. It's not meant to soothe in the performative way people often try—no artificial sweetness, no pressure to relax—it's simply there. Present. Real. A wordless reminder that he's with you. That he always is. You close your eyes, breathing in the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of sleep and clean cotton, the comforting hum of his presence. Familiar. Grounding. You're starting to learn that this kind of quiet doesn't have to be dangerous. That it can hold you instead of crush you. That not every silence has teeth.

"It was the Peterson's door again," he murmurs eventually, voice low and rough from sleep, the vibrations of it humming through his chest and into your bones. "I'll ask them to fix the hinge tomorrow. It's probably loose."

There's no annoyance in his tone, no blame. Just quiet, steady observation. A small act of protection spoken aloud. The way he says it tells you everything—it's not a problem to fix for his comfort, it's something he'll handle so that maybe, just maybe, next time won't feel like a war zone in your own body. You imagine him standing in the hallway tomorrow morning, knocking gently, his voice soft but firm as he explains the situation. You imagine the subtle way he'll make it sound like nothing, like kindness, not complaint. That's how he shields you—from things others wouldn't even think to protect against.

You nod against him, a tiny motion, barely more than a breath. "I knew it wasn't ours," you say, voice brittle. "But I couldn't—my body just…" The words falter, fall apart in your mouth before you can finish. The shame comes after, as it always does. A creeping thing that wraps itself around the edges of your throat, makes you want to apologise for reacting at all. For being the version of yourself you still struggle to accept.

"I know."

That's all he says. And it's enough.

He doesn't tell you it's nothing. He doesn't tell you to let it go. He doesn't explain that you're safe now, or that the past can't hurt you here—not because he doesn't believe those things, but because he knows that truth doesn't always land when the fear is still fresh. He doesn't try to drag you out of it with logic. He never has. He understands what it means to live inside a body that remembers too much. He knows fear isn't always rational. He never asks it to be. He respects your reality, even when it hurts him to see you in it. Especially then. His presence is not about fixing. It's about being there, even in the broken places.

"I hate this," you breathe eventually. The words taste bitter on your tongue. "I hate that I'm still like this."

Aaron's hand stills for a moment, then resumes its slow pattern, unwavering. "You're not broken," he says, simply. "This isn't a flaw. It's a wound. And wounds don't vanish just because we want them to. They heal slow. They ache. That doesn't make you weak."

You blink hard against the sting behind your eyes. "It's been years."

"So?" he says again, calm as ever. "Time doesn't always mean distance. You survived. That matters more than the timeline."

You let out a shaky breath, trying to exhale the guilt that coils in your gut. "You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"I'm not dealing with you," he says, firmer now, though still gentle. "I'm loving you. There's a difference."

There's a pause. You let that word echo inside your chest. Loving. It rings through you like a quiet bell, startling in its gentleness.

You lift your head slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face is barely visible in the dark, the angles of it softened by shadow. But you can make out the furrow in his brow, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the softness that lives behind every sharp edge. He meets your eyes without flinching. There's no hesitation there. No doubt.

"You mean that?"

"Always."

The word lands like a warm stone in your chest. Heavy, but grounding. You rest your head back down, shifting just a little closer, hand slipping across his stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it's the only solid thing anchoring you to the present. He adjusts slightly, only to press a kiss into your hair. You can feel it more than you hear it. It lingers, warm and sure. You wonder, for a brief moment, what it would be like to believe in permanence. And then you realise: you already do. In this moment. In him.

"I'm still scared," you whisper. The words are almost too small to be heard, barely more than the breath they ride in on.

"I know," he murmurs. "And that's okay."

"And I don't know if I'll ever stop being scared."

His arm wraps around your back, steady and sure, holding you not too tightly, not too loosely—just right. Just enough. "Then we'll face it together. Every time."

There's something so certain in the way he says it. No hesitation. No conditions. No expiry date.

You let those words wash over you, seep into the cracks of your chest where the panic left fractures. They don't erase the pain. They don't fix what's broken. But they hold you together long enough to breathe again. They wrap around the jagged edges and remind you that healing doesn't mean never hurting. That love can exist right alongside the fear. That someone can see every part of you—even the scared, shaking parts—and stay.

There's no miracle moment. No perfect stillness. Your heart doesn't suddenly calm all the way, and your body doesn't stop aching. The ghost of the fear still lingers in your limbs, in the tightness of your jaw, the twitch of your fingers. But in the quiet, in the dark, in the shape of Aaron's arms around you and the weight of his words, something inside you begins to settle. Not peace. Not yet. But something close enough to rest. Something steady enough to trust. The kind of stillness that doesn't come from silence, but from being understood.

You let your eyes fall shut. And this time, when the wind shifts and the night creaks, you stay in his arms.

You don't run.

Not tonight.

And maybe—not tomorrow either.

And maybe, one day, the sound of a door won't send your body into battle. Maybe one day you'll wake to a loud noise and feel only mild irritation, not terror. Maybe you'll forget to flinch. Maybe sleep won't feel like a risk. But even if that day never comes, even if the fear never fades completely, you know this: you won't face it alone.