Page 261 of What We Bury

His rhythm stays unhurried, even as I feel the tension building in his shoulders, the way his breath goes ragged.

“Holden.” His name leaves my mouth in a whimper. My fingers dig into his shoulders, hips rolling to meet his, chasing the slow, devastating build. “Right there.”

“Good girl.” He buries his face in my neck, his mouth hot against my pulse, and I feel his whole body shudder when I clench around him. “Fuck, wildcat. You feel—” He groans, the sound vibrating through my chest. “You feel like everything.”

The orgasm doesn’t crash, it rises. Like a tide coming in, slow and relentless, filling every hollow place inside me until there’s no room left for fear or doubt or the memory of rope swaying in an empty room. I come with his name on my lips and my face pressed into his shoulder, my whole body pulling tight around him, and he holds me through it, steady and unwavering, his arms locked like he’ll never let anything touch me again.

“Holden!”

“Fuck, Sage.”

He follows a moment later, his hips stuttering, a low groan buried against my collarbone, and I feel him pulse inside me—warm, real, alive. His arms tighten, his breath ragged in my ear, and for a long moment neither of us moves. Just heartbeats and steam and the slow drip of the faucet.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, his voice rough.

“More than okay.”

He kisses me softly, then pulls out slow and steadies me on the counter.

“Let me get something to clean you up.” He reaches for a fresh washcloth and runs it under warm water, wringing it out.

When he brings it between my legs, he’s impossibly tender. He cleans me with slow, careful strokes, his free hand resting on my thigh, thumb brushing back and forth against my skin. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t rush. Just takes care of me like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done, and when he’s finished he presses a kiss to the inside of my knee that undoes me more than the sex did.

He wraps me in a fresh towel—warm from the rack—and dries me off section by section. My arms, my shoulders, my back. He towels my hair gently, squeezing out the water, and I just sit there and let him, because fighting Holden’s caretaking is like fighting the pull of gravity. Pointless and exhausting and why would you even want to?

“Arms up.” He pulls my sleep shirt over my head, guiding my arms through like I’m five and he’s got infinite patience. Shorts follow. He dresses himself in a pair of sweats and nothing else.

Then he scoops me off the counter and carries me to bed.

The sheets are cool and clean, and when he lowers me onto the mattress, I roll onto my side and curl up, already half-gone. The pillow smells like him. The whole room smells like him, a scent I’m starting to think might just be safety.

He climbs in behind me. One arm slides under the pillow, the other wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his chest until there’s no space between us. His body curves around mine like a wall, his chin tucked against my hair, his knees fitting behind mine. I can feel his heartbeat against my spine—slow, steady, the most reliable rhythm I’ve ever known.

The house is quiet now. The voices downstairs have settled into silence, or close to it—a murmur here, a creak there.

I lace my fingers through his where they rest on my stomach. He squeezes once.

For a while, we just breathe.

Then his lips press against my shoulder, and he speaks against my skin.

“Do you remember what you said last night? Before you fell asleep?”

My heart kicks. I do remember. The words that fell out of me, half-conscious, too wrecked to hold anything back. I’d meant every syllable, even the ones I didn’t know were coming.

“I remember,” I say quietly. “I said I love you guys.”

His arm tightens around me. Just a fraction. Just enough.

“Well.” His voice is low, almost rough, like the words have to travel through something dense to reach the surface. “I do too. Love you, I mean.”

My breath catches. Not because I didn’t know—I think part of me has known for a while, in the way he looks at me, in the wayhe steps in and takes care of me when I’m too stubborn to admit I’m hurting. But hearing it—hearing Holden say it, this man who built an entire life around control and competence and never needing anyone—means everything.

I roll over to face him.

His eyes are right there. Blue and steady and a little terrified, like he’s handed me a weapon and is waiting to see what I do with it.

I bring my hand to his face. My thumb traces the line of his jaw, the stubble rough under my fingertip, and I don’t look away until I’m sure he can see every single thing I mean.