I want it, I say, and I mean it — but I don't let go of his chest. Don't step back. The key is warm in my palm, its teeth pressing into my skin, and his heartbeat is still there under my hand, steady and real.
His hand moves from my waist, slides down to the hem of his shirt I'm wearing, and his fingers brush the bare skin of my thigh. Light. Questioning. I don't pull away. I don't even breathe.
His thumb traces a slow circle on my hip, and I feel him through his boxers — the heat of him, the way he's already hard against my stomach, pressing through the thin fabric. My fingers tighten around the key.
"We never did finish that shower," he murmurs, his voice low, rough at the edges.
I look up at him. His pale blue eyes are dark now, pupils wide, and there's a tension in his jaw that isn't fear anymore. It's want. Plain and unguarded.
"No," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "We didn't."
His other hand finds mine — the one holding the key — and he curls my fingers tighter around it, his palm warm over my knuckles. Then he guides my hand lower. Down his chest, past the collarbone I kissed this morning, over the hard plane of his stomach. I feel his breath catch when my knuckles brush the waistband of his boxers.
He stops there. Lets me feel the edge of the fabric, the heat radiating from his body, the way his muscles have gone tight with waiting.
"You don't have to," he says, but his voice cracks on the last word.
I look at the key in my hand. His key. His apartment. His heart, pressed into my palm like something fragile he trusted me to hold.
And I want to give him something back.
I pull my hand free from his grip — gently, slowly — and set the key on the counter beside us. It makes a small metal sound against the tile, final and deliberate.
Then I sink to my knees.
His breath leaves him in a rush. "Sofia—"
I don't answer. I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, watching his cock spring free, already hard and leaking at the tip. He's beautiful like this — tall and lean and undone, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands hovering like he doesn't know where to put them.
I wrap my fingers around the base of him, and he shudders.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," I say, looking up at him.
He shakes his head, mute.
I lean in and take him into my mouth.
The taste of him hits my tongue — salt and skin, the faint musk of his morning. I let my lips close around the head, let my tongue trace the vein on the underside, and I hear him choke on a breath above me.
His hand finds my hair, not pulling, just resting there, his fingers trembling against my scalp.
I take him deeper. Slow. I want to feel every inch of him, want to know the exact sound he makes when I swirl my tongue, the way his hips twitch when I suck harder. I want to memorize this — the weight of him on my tongue, the salt-slick taste, the way his thighs have gone tight beneath my hands where I grip them for balance.
"Fuck," he breathes, and it's barely a sound at all.
I hollow my cheeks and pull back, slow and deliberate, letting the suction draw a moan from deep in his chest. His hand tightens in my hair, just a little, just enough.
I look up at him as I take him back in, and his eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, his whole body strung tight like a wire about to snap.
I want to be the one who breaks him.
I move faster. My hand works the base while my mouth takes as much of him as I can, and I feel him hit the back of my throat, feel myself gag for half a second before I relax into it. His breath is ragged now, coming in short gasps, and his hips are starting to move, a small thrust that tells me he's close.
"Sofia—" His voice is wrecked. "I'm gonna—"
I don't stop. I take him deeper, grip his thigh harder, and I let him feel my mouth open wide, let him feel the wet heat of me taking all of him.
He comes with a sound I've never heard from him — a broken, desperate noise, half groan, half sob — and I feel him pulse against my tongue, hot and thick, spilling into my mouth. I swallow. Keep my lips sealed around him until he stops shaking, until his hand goes slack in my hair and his chest heaves like he's been holding his breath for years.
I pull back slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and look up at him.
He stares down at me like he's never seen me before.
His boxers are still around his thighs. His cock is softening, wet from my mouth. His chest is bare and flushed, and there's a tremor in his hands that he can't seem to stop.
"Sofia," he says again, and this time it sounds like a prayer.
I stand up, my knees aching a little from the tile, and I don't look away from him. His shirt — my shirt now — hangs loose on my frame, and I feel his eyes follow the hem, the bare skin of my thighs, the way my hair has come loose from its tie and falls around my face.
"That," I say, my voice steadier than I expected, "is what happens when you give me a key."
He laughs — a short, disbelieving sound — and pulls me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me so tight I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek. He presses his face into my hair, and I feel him breathe me in, deep and shaking.
"I love you," he says into my hair. "I love you so much it scares me."
I press my palm flat against his back, feel the sweat cooling on his skin, the hard line of his spine beneath my fingers. "I love you too," I say. And I mean it. I mean it so much it scares me too.
We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other in his kitchen, the morning sun climbing higher through the window, lighting the dust motes floating in the air between us. His boxers are still around his thighs, and the key is still on the counter, and none of it matters.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, and there's a vulnerability on his face that makes my chest ache.
"Stay," he says. "Today. Tonight. Forever. I don't care. Just stay."
I reach up and touch his face — the scar above his eyebrow, the stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his cheek beneath my palm. "I'm not going anywhere," I tell him.
He closes his eyes and leans into my hand, and I feel the last of the tension drain out of his shoulders.
The key glints on the counter, catching the light.
I reach for it — slow, deliberate — and close my fingers around it. The metal is cool now, no longer warm from my palm. I hold it up where he can see it.
"This means I get to stay," I say. "Not just today. Not just tonight. This means I get to come back. Every time."
He nods, his throat working. "Every time."
I slide the key into the pocket of the sweatpants I'm wearing — his sweatpants — and the weight of it settles against my hip like it belongs there.
I pull him down by the neck and kiss him. Slow. Deep. I taste myself on his lips, and I don't care. He groans into my mouth and his hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel him start to harden again against my stomach.
I pull back, breathless. "We never did finish that shower," I say, echoing his words from earlier.
His smile is slow and dangerous. "No," he says. "We didn't."
He takes my hand — the one that held the key — and leads me out of the kitchen, down the hall, toward the bathroom where steam is long gone but the heat between us hasn't cooled at all.
And I follow.
Because I have a key now. Because I chose him. Because every time I think I've given him everything, I find I have more to give.
The bathroom tiles are cold under my bare feet. He turns on the shower, and the water takes a moment to warm, the spray sputtering against the tub. He steps in first, holds out his hand for me.
I take it.
The water hits my skin, hot and steady, and I feel it run through my hair, down my shoulders, soaking the shirt I'm still wearing. He's still wearing his boxers — pushed down to his thighs, wet and clinging — and I reach for the waistband and pull them the rest of the way off. He steps out of them, kicks them aside, and then we're both naked in the steam, the water streaming between us.
He presses me against the cold tile wall, and the contrast — hot water, cold tile, his body warm against mine — makes me gasp. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, and I let my head fall back, let the water run over my throat.
His hand slides down my stomach, between my legs, and I'm already wet — have been since I dropped to my knees in the kitchen. He finds my clit with his thumb and presses, circles, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
"Let me hear you," he murmurs against my ear. "No one else is here. Just me."
I let go. The sound that comes out of me is half moan, half whimper, and it's swallowed by the rush of water.
He pushes a finger inside me, then two, curling them just right, and my knees go weak. I grip his shoulders, hold myself up, and let him work me open, let him feel how much I want him.
"I need you," I gasp. "Liam—"
"I know," he says. "I've got you."
He lifts me — his hands under my thighs, my back against the tile — and I wrap my legs around his waist, feel the head of his cock press against my entrance. He holds there, just at the edge, his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard in the steam.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. His pale blue eyes are clear, steady, full of something that makes my chest ache.
"I love you," he says. "Say it back."
"I love you," I whisper. "I love you, I love you, I—"
He pushes inside me, slow and deep, filling me completely, and the words die in my throat. I feel him stretch me, feel every inch of him, and I cling to him, my nails digging into his shoulders, my head falling back against the tile.
He starts to move. Slow at first, each thrust deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. The water runs between us, hot and slick, and the sound of our bodies meeting echoes off the bathroom walls.
I come apart around him — my cunt clenching, my whole body shaking, his name on my lips like a prayer — and he follows me, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me, groaning, trembling, holding me so tight I can barely breathe.
We stay like that, wrapped in each other, the water growing cool around us, his heartbeat hammering against my chest.
Finally, he sets me down, and I stand on shaky legs, the water still running, the steam curling around us. He reaches past me and turns off the shower. The silence rushes in, thick and warm.
I look at him — water dripping from his hair, his chest still heaving, his eyes soft and full of something I don't have a word for yet.
And I think about the key in my pocket. About the weight of it. About what it means to have a door that opens to him, always.
He takes my hand, and we step out of the shower, dripping onto the bathmat, leaving wet footprints across the tile.
The towel is rough against my skin. He dries me first — slow, careful, like I'm something precious — and then I take the towel from him and dry his chest, his arms, his hair, standing on my toes to reach.
He laughs, and the sound fills the small bathroom, warm and real.
"What?" I say, smiling.
"Nothing," he says. "I just—" He shakes his head, still smiling. "I didn't know it could be like this."
"Like what?"
"Easy," he says. "Right. Like I don't have to pretend with you."
I press the towel to his chest, over his heart. "You don't," I say. "You never have to pretend with me."
He pulls me into his arms, wet skin against wet skin, and holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
But I won't.
I have a key now.
And the key in my pocket, heavy and real, is the only answer I need.