The supermarket had been a stroke of luck he hadn't planned. Christian had been driving past the corner of Sofia's street when he spotted her through the glass doors of the little market, wrestling with a paper bag that was clearly too heavy for her thin wrists, her dark hair escaping a messy bun. He pulled over without thinking, killed the engine, and was through the automatic doors before she'd even made it to the sidewalk.

"Let me."

She startled, the bag slipping, and his hands closed over it before it could hit the concrete. Her eyes went wide—those dark eyes that had been living in his head for weeks—and she blinked at him like he was a hallucination.

"Christian." His name came out flat, not a question, not a greeting.

"Hello, love." He smiled, easy, deliberate. "That looks like it's trying to escape you."

She stared at him. The fluorescent light of the market made her look pale, tired, like she hadn't been sleeping either. He wondered if she'd been lying awake the same way he had, staring at the ceiling and replaying every word, every touch, every moment he'd wasted pretending he didn't care.

"You don't live here," she said.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"This isn't your neighborhood."

"It is now."

She didn't smile. But she didn't walk away either. She just stood there, her hands empty now, her arms crossed over her chest, watching him hold her groceries like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I've been calling," he said.

"I know."

"You haven't answered."

"I know."

He waited. She didn't offer more. The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the refrigerators and the distant clatter of a cart. He could see the war in her face—the part of her that wanted to tell him to fuck off, and the part that was too tired to fight him.

"Let me walk you home," he said. Not a question.

"I can carry my own bags."

"I didn't say you couldn't. I said let me walk you home."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned and started walking, and he fell into step beside her, the bag of groceries swinging from his hand like a peace offering.

They walked in silence through the Miami dusk, the streets still thick with heat, the sky bleeding orange and pink overhead. He watched her from the corner of his eye—the set of her jaw, the way she kept her gaze fixed ahead, the small tremor in her fingers as she dug her keys out of her pocket. She was trying to be hard. But he'd seen her soft, and he knew the difference.

Her apartment building was small, the kind of place you found when you didn't want to be found. She unlocked the door without looking at him, held it open just long enough for him to step through, and then closed it behind them with a click that felt louder than it should have.

The air inside was thick with sandalwood, warm and familiar. He set the grocery bag on the counter and took the place in—the silk throw crumpled on the sofa, the abandoned wine glass on the coffee table, the half-drawn blinds letting in the dying light. It was small and human and completely unlike the glass towers he lived in, and he wanted to stay here until she forgot he'd ever left.

"You can put the milk away," she said, her back to him, her hands hovering over the bag without touching it.

He opened the refrigerator. It hummed, cold air spilling out. He put the milk on the shelf next to a jar of pickles and a carton of eggs, and when he closed the door, she still hadn't moved.

"Sofia."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say my name like that." Her voice cracked on the last word. "Like you have any right to it."

He took a step toward her. She didn't step back. That was something.

"I know I don't," he said. "I know I've got no right to anything from you. But I'm here anyway, because I couldn't stay away."

"You left."

"I came back."

"You left me for—" She stopped, her throat working. "You had a whole other life. A whole other woman. And I was just—"

"You were never just anything."

She turned to face him then, and her eyes were wet. Not crying—not yet—but bright with it, the kind of wet that came before the dam broke. "You told me I was yours. You said—"

"I know what I said."

"And then you went to Dubai and—"

"I know." He moved closer. One step. Then another. "I know what I did. I know I broke it. I know I don't deserve to be standing in your kitchen right now."

"Then why are you?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you." The words came out raw, stripped of the polish he usually wore like armor. "Because every time I close my eyes, I see you. Because I fucked up—I fucked up so badly—and I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try."

She shook her head, a small, tight motion. "You can't just—"

"I'm not trying to just anything. I'm standing here, in your kitchen, holding your groceries, telling you the truth. That's all I've got."

She looked at him for a long moment. The refrigerator hummed. The city light bled orange through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. He could see the war in her face, the push and pull of wanting to believe him and knowing better.

"I don't trust you," she said finally.

"I know."

"I don't trust a single word that comes out of your mouth."

"I know that too."

"But I—" She stopped. Swallowed. Her hands were trembling at her sides, and she didn't seem to know what to do with them. "I can't stop thinking about you either."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile as glass. He didn't move. He didn't reach for her. He just stood there, letting her words settle into him, letting her see that he wasn't going to rush this, wasn't going to push.

She was the first to move. She closed the distance between them, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She looked up at him, and there was something broken in her eyes, something that made his chest ache.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she said.

"I know."

"This doesn't mean anything."

"I know."

She was lying, and they both knew it. But he didn't call her on it. He just stood there, letting her hands grip his shirt, letting her decide what happened next.

Her fingers tightened. Her breath came shallow. And then she was pulling him down, her mouth finding his in a kiss that was nothing like the soft, tentative ones they'd shared before. This was hungry. Desperate. Like she was trying to claw something back from him, to take what she needed before he could take it away again.

He kissed her back just as hard, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing the tears that had finally spilled over. She made a sound against his mouth—not quite a sob, not quite a moan—and he swallowed it, pulling her closer, letting her feel how much he'd missed her.

She broke the kiss first, gasping, her forehead pressed against his. "I hate you," she whispered.

"I know."

"I hate that you came back."

"I know."

"I hate that I'm glad you did."

He didn't say anything to that. There was nothing to say. He just held her, his hands still on her face, her body pressed against his, the two of them standing in her kitchen as the light outside faded from orange to purple to dark.

Her hands slid down from his chest, past his waist, her fingers hooking into his belt loops. She pulled him closer, and he let her, his own hands dropping to her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft give of her waist.

"Sofia." His voice came out rough, undone. "We don't have to—"

"Shut up." She kissed him again, harder, and he felt the fight drain out of him. "Just—shut up and kiss me."

He did. He kissed her until her breath came in short, sharp gasps against his mouth. He kissed her until her hands were fisted in his shirt, until she was pressing against him like she wanted to climb inside his skin. He kissed her until the world outside the apartment ceased to exist, until there was nothing left but the two of them and the heat building between them.

Her hands found the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, her fingers cold against his stomach. He hissed at the contact, his hips bucking forward of their own accord, and she made a sound that was almost a laugh.

"Eager?" she murmured against his mouth.

"You have no idea."

She pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind her, and then her hands were on his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles like she was memorizing him. He watched her face as she touched him, saw the way her eyes darkened, the way her lips parted.

"I missed this," she said quietly. "I missed you."

He didn't answer with words. He pulled her closer, his mouth finding hers again, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, pulling her hips against his. She gasped into his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and he walked her backward until her thighs hit the arm of the sofa.

She fell back onto the silk throw, pulling him down with her, and he went willingly, his body covering hers, his weight settling into the cradle of her hips. The silk was cool and wrinkled beneath them, and she smelled like sandalwood and something sweeter underneath, something that was just her.

He kissed down her throat, feeling her pulse flutter under his lips, and she arched into him, a soft, desperate sound escaping her. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and he obliged, his mouth finding the hollow of her collarbone, the swell of her breast through the thin cotton of her shirt.

"Christian." His name on her lips was a prayer, a plea, a promise. "Please."

He looked up at her, his breath ragged, his hands shaking with the effort of holding back. "Please what?"

"Just—" She pulled at his shoulders, trying to bring him back to her mouth. "Just touch me. Don't make me beg."

"I would never make you beg." He kissed her softly, a counterpoint to the hunger that had come before. "But I need to hear you say it."

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face, and then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "I want you," she said. "I want you to touch me. I want you to—" She stopped, her cheeks flushing. "I want you to make me forget."

He didn't ask what she meant. He knew. He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, and she melted into him, her body softening under his hands. He took his time, his hands learning her again, his mouth tracing the lines of her body through her clothes, and she let him, her breath coming in soft, broken sighs.

When his hand slid under her shirt, finding the warm skin of her stomach, she shivered. When his fingers traced the lace edge of her bra, she whimpered. When he unhooked it with one hand, his mouth never leaving hers, she gasped against his lips.

He pulled the shirt over her head, and the bra followed, and then she was bare beneath him, her skin flushed and warm, her breasts rising and falling with each quick breath. He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in, and she squirmed under his gaze.

"Stop staring," she muttered.

"I can't help it." He lowered his head, his mouth finding her nipple, and she gasped, her back arching off the sofa. "You're beautiful."

"Don't—"

"I'm not going to stop saying it." He laved the peak with his tongue, feeling it harden against his lips. "You're beautiful. You're mine. I'm not going anywhere."

She made a sound that was half protest, half moan, and then her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lost himself in her.

He kissed his way down her body, his mouth tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. Her jeans were next, unbuttoned and pushed down her thighs, and he pulled them off, leaving her in nothing but a thin pair of panties that were already damp.

He looked up at her, and she was watching him, her eyes dark and wide, her lips parted. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The invitation was there, in the way her thighs fell open, in the way her hips tilted up toward him.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as he did. Her breath caught when the cool air hit her, and then he was lowering his head, his mouth finding her, and she cried out.

She tasted like salt and honey and everything he'd been missing. He licked into her slowly, savoring her, and her hips bucked against his mouth, her fingers twisting in his hair. He worked her with his tongue, with his lips, with his fingers, until she was shaking beneath him, until her breath came in short, desperate gasps.

"Christian—" His name broke on her lips. "Please, I—"

He pulled back, his chin slick with her, and looked up at her. "Not yet."

"Why—"

"Because I want to be inside you when you come."

She made a sound that was almost a sob, and he rose up over her, his hands shaking as he undid his belt, his trousers, pushing them down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and aching, and he saw her eyes drop to it, saw the way her lips parted.

He positioned himself at her entrance, and she looked up at him, her eyes wet, her chest heaving. "Don't leave me," she whispered.

He kissed her, soft and slow, and then he pushed inside her.

She gasped against his mouth, her body arching into him, and he stilled, letting her adjust, letting her feel the fullness of him. She was so tight, so wet, so perfect, and he had to close his eyes for a moment, just to hold on.

"Move," she whispered. "Please, Christian, move."

He did. He pulled back and thrust into her, slow and deep, and she moaned, her nails raking down his back. He found a rhythm, steady and sensual, his mouth never leaving hers, kissing her through every stroke, every gasp, every whispered plea.

She was wrapped around him, her legs locked around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. He could feel her tightening around him, feel her getting close, and he slowed, teasing her, drawing it out until she was whimpering beneath him.

"Please," she begged. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need." He thrust into her harder, deeper, and she cried out, her body shuddering. "I need it too."

He kissed her again, swallowing her moans, and he could feel himself getting close, could feel the heat building at the base of his spine. He wanted to hold on, wanted to make it last, but she was so tight, so perfect, and he was so far gone.

"Come with me," he breathed against her mouth. "Come with me, Sofia."

She shattered. He felt it, the way her body clenched around him, the way she cried out his name, and he followed her over the edge, burying himself deep inside her as he came, his body shuddering with the force of it.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard, the silk throw bunched beneath them. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, could feel the tremors still running through her body, and he held her, his face buried in her hair.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly.

She didn't answer. But her arms tightened around him, and he felt her nod against his chest.

Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to the two of them. But inside, in the warm dark of her apartment, Christian held her and let himself believe that maybe, this time, he could stay.