Page 45 of What We Don't Say: Part One

One tap.

The smile that breaks across my face feels too big for the closet. “Okay. One means yes.”

He kisses me again before I can make any more rules.

This time there is less fear in it. More certainty. His hand slides up my side, over my ribs, stopping when I inhale too sharply. He pulls back at once, eyes wide.

“One,” I whisper.

He taps my wrist once and touches me again.

The wanting that moves through me is soft and startling and far too alive to call soothing. It isn't Sloane’s consuming heat or Idris’ controlled command. It is Theo’s breath catchingevery time I answer him, Theo’s fingers learning the shape of permission, Theo pressing his mouth to mine like each kiss proves the house hasn't swallowed him.

He leans into me until my back presses more firmly against the wall. My knee shifts between his, and his breath breaks apart. I stop moving.

His fingers tap my wrist once. Then again, impatient this time, and I laugh quietly into his mouth.

The sound makes him smile.

That smile ruins me.

I kiss him deeper, and his hand curls at the back of my neck. The closet is too small and too warm. My shoulder aches against the shelf. One of the folded towels falls somewhere near my hip. None of it matters. For a few bright minutes, there is only Theo’s mouth, Theo’s hands, Theo’s scent unwinding into mine, and the terrifying, beautiful realization that he isn't only calming down.

He's wanting me.

And I'm wanting him back.

When we finally slow, it is because his body runs out of strength before his mouth runs out of need. He folds into my side, panting against my neck, one hand still hooked in my cardigan like I might vanish if he lets go.

I press my lips to his hair. “Stay here. I’ve got you.”

He hums, a small, worn-out sound, and tucks his face under my chin. The nest shifts around us as he drags one of my sweaters over his lap. I keep my fingers in his hair, stroking slowly until the last of the tremors ease from his shoulders.

The house stays quiet.

At some point, his breathing evens out.

I wait longer than I need to, partly because moving feels impossible and partly because I don't want to leave him. He's asleep against me, lashes dark against his cheeks, mouth soft from kissing, one hand still curled in my sweater. The closetsmells like both of us now, pear and vanilla tea tangled with cardamom and peach blossom, and the knowledge of that makes heat rise up my throat.

I don't feel guilty.

That should probably scare me.

Instead, I feel careful. Shaken. Tender in places I didn't know could still bruise.

My phone buzzes once in my pocket.

I freeze, then ease it out with two fingers.

Sloane: Doing okay?

The message on its own almost makes me cry. I slowly type with one thumb.

Me: He found a small closet nest by the laundry room. He’s asleep. Please don’t come in yet. He panicked a little but he’s settled.

The response comes fast.

Sloane: Tell me where to stand.