Page 93 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“Green. Please don’t stop.”

I don’t.

I slide one finger inside her, then a second when she opens easily for me, curling them in time with the slow strokes of my tongue. The dual sensation pulls a longer sound from her throat. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head. I keep the rhythm exact, reading every small change in her body, until the pleasure starts to gather in earnest.

That is when the apology comes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice already fraying. “I’m taking too much time, I know I’m—”

I stop immediately. My mouth leaves her. My fingers stay inside her but no longer move. I lift my head so she has to see my face.

“No.”

Her eyes open, wet and startled.

“You don't apologize for this.” I keep my voice low and absolute. “Receiving care isn't theft. Wanting this isn't a burden. Color.”

Her throat works. “Green.”

“Then stay with your body. Stay with me. Let me give this to you.”

I wait until she nods. Only then do I lower my head again.

This time I don't hold back the intensity. I suck gently at the peak of her while my fingers stroke the place inside that makes her hips lift. Her free hand fists in the sheets. The one holding mine tightens hard. Soft, broken sounds leave her with every breath. I keep her there, right at the edge, until the only thing left in her is sensation and the sound of my name.

When she comes it is hard and full-body. Her back arches, a cry tears from her throat, and tears slip from the corners of her eyes at the same time. I stay with her through every wave, gentling only when the shaking turns sharp, pressing soft kisses to her as the pleasure rolls on and on. She cries quietly while it happens, the fear rising with the release the way it sometimes does when someone has gone too long without being allowed to take up space.

I don't rush the aftermath.

I ease my fingers free and move up her body, gathering her against my chest while the last tremors leave her. One hand strokes her hair. The other rubs slow circles over her back. I let her cry without trying to stop it, without asking her to explain. When the tears finally slow I reach for the water glass on the nightstand and help her drink. Then I clean her carefully witha warm cloth from the nightstand, taking my time, making the care as deliberate as the pleasure was.

Afterward, she lies against my chest with the duvet pulled to her shoulders and one of my hands spread over her stomach. I can feel each breath move through her. The room smells like salt, warmth, and the faint sweetness of the pear tea she left untouched on the nightstand this morning.

I press the rim of the water glass to her mouth. “Another sip.”

She obeys, then frowns at herself for it.

“Don’t do that,” I murmur.

“What?”

“Turn care into evidence against yourself.”

Her hand stills over my wrist. I wait. The silence here is different from the kitchen. It has weight, but it has room inside it too.

“I feel like I’m waiting,” she says at last.

“For what?”

“For someone to tell me I’ve taken too much.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t break. That almost hurts more. “From you. From Sloane. From Theo. Like there’s a limit I can’t see, and one day everyone else will notice I passed it before I did.”

I tighten my arm around her. The first answer that rises in me is too sharp, all instinct and possession. I swallow it down. She doesn’t need my anger first. She needs something solid enough to rest on.

“You haven’t taken too much,” I say. “You’re allowed to need us back.”

Her fingers trace the bones of my hand where it rests against her stomach. “It doesn’t feel that simple.”

“I know.”