The days after our confession passed in a dream.
Maddy and I existed in a world of our own making—morning texts that felt like secrets passed between lovers, calls that stretched into the quiet hours of night, walks where his fingers laced with mine as if they'd always belonged there. It wasn't just time passing. It was trust, deepening. Roots digging into earth.
And then—
I knew.
I wanted him. Not just in stolen kisses or breathless touches. I wanted the weight of him, the heat, the truth of skin against skin. I wanted to give myself to him completely.
So I planned.
Not grand gestures. No rose petals or clichés. Just us—the way we always were. Quiet. Real.
My room smelled of vanilla candles by the time he arrived, their glow painting the walls in flickering gold. A playlist hummed in the background—songs that had become ours without either of us noticing.
When the knock came, my pulse stuttered.
I opened the door.
There he stood—loose cotton shirt, sleep-soft eyes, that smile that unraveled me.
"What's going on?" he asked, fingers brushing mine as he stepped inside. His gaze swept over the candles, the dim light, the way I'd bitten my lip raw waiting for him.
"Nothing," I whispered. "Just… stay."
We sat. We talked. We laughed—easy as always.
But the air between us had changed.
His fingers traced idle circles on my wrist. My breath hitched when his knee brushed mine. The silence wasn't empty anymore—it was heavy with everything we weren't saying.
Then—
I reached for him.
My thumb grazed his cheekbone, and he stilled, his breath catching.
"You sure?" he murmured, voice rough.
I nodded. "I want this. With you. Only you."
And then—
The kiss.
Not hungry. Not rushed.
Certain.
His hands cradled my face like I was something sacred. When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine—asking, always asking—and I answered by guiding his palm to the hem of my shirt.
"Slow," he breathed against my lips.
And we were.
Every touch was a question. Every gasp an answer. He mapped my skin like he was memorizing it—lips brushing the curve of my shoulder, fingers tracing the dip of my waist.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, and I believed him.
When we finally came together, it wasn't with frantic need. It was with reverence. His body moved over mine like a prayer, his forehead pressed to mine as we breathed each other in.
After, tangled in sheets and candlelight, his heartbeat steady under my palm, I understood—
This wasn't losing myself.
It was being found.