She found him standing by the window, his silhouette sharp against the dim city glow. The lamp painted his face in amber, shadows pooling in the hollows of his throat. His hands were still. He'd been waiting.

"Is she asleep?" he asked, his voice low.

"Out cold. She asked if you'd be here in the morning."

"What did you tell her?"

"That you weren't going anywhere."

Something moved behind his eyes. He crossed the room slowly, each step measured. When he reached her, his palm settled against her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. She leaned into the touch, her breath shallow.

"Come here," he said, and he didn't wait for an answer.

He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed. The mattress dipped under their weight. He laid her down, the wool rug soft beneath her bare feet where they still touched the floor. The lamp cast a single halo of light across the sheets.

His hands found the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly. She raised her arms without being told. The fabric slid over her head, leaving her chest bared, her skin prickling in the cool room. He didn't look away. His eyes traced her breasts, the way her nipples tightened, the slight tremor in her ribs as she breathed.

"Bra," he said, a command wrapped in a request.

She reached behind herself, unhooked it, let it fall. He caught it before it hit the floor and set it aside. Then his hands found her jeans, undoing the button, pulling the zipper. She lifted her hips as he worked the denim down her legs, taking her underwear with it. He paused when she was naked, his gaze traveling the length of her.

"Ten years," he said. "And you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Heat flooded her throat. She wanted to speak, but the words caught.

He stood, undressing himself with deliberate economy—shirt unbuttoned, belt unbuckled, trousers pushed down. The scar on his ribs, a pale line she remembered from a night she'd traced it with her tongue. His cock, already hard, rising against his stomach. He was leaner than she remembered, the years etched into the lines of his face, but his body still held that coiled intensity she'd never found anywhere else.

He climbed onto the bed, his weight settling beside her. His hand slid up her thigh, parting her legs. He didn't kiss her. He simply looked, his fingers tracing the wet heat gathering between her thighs.

"You're ready for me," he said. Not a question.

"I've been ready for ten years."

The raw truth of it hung between them. His jaw tightened. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then guided her to turn over.

She rolled onto her stomach, her cheek pressing into the pillow. The sheets smelled of him—cedar and sandalwood and something clean and warm. She heard him shift behind her, felt his hand on her hip, pulling her up onto her knees. Her breasts pressed into the mattress. She was open, exposed, his to take.

His fingers traced down her spine, over the dip of her lower back, settling on her ass. He squeezed once, a firm pressure, then parted her. The cool air touched her wet cunt, and she shuddered.

"Look at you," he murmured. "Soaked. Desperate."

"Please, Mickle."

"Please what?"

"Don't make me beg."

He leaned over her, his lips at her ear. "But I love it when you beg."

She whimpered, pressing back against him. The head of his cock nudged her entrance, slick and hot, and she pushed against it, trying to take him inside. His hand on her hip held her still.

"Not yet," he said. "Look at me."

She twisted her neck, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. The lamp caught one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. His breath was uneven, his chest rising hard. He was struggling to hold the control too.

"I've been alone for ten years," he said, his voice rough. "I didn't know why I was waiting. I just knew I was. Every night, this empty bed. Every morning, nothing. And then you showed up at my door with a daughter I never knew I had."

"Mickle—"

"Let me finish." His thumb pressed into her hip. "I've thought about this—about you—every single day. Not just the sex. The way you looked at me in that classroom. The way you said my name. The way you didn't flinch when I held you."

She was shaking now, her hands gripping the pillow.

"I don't want another night without you," he said. "I don't want another day wondering if you'll leave." He paused, and she felt the weight of the next words before they came. "Marry me."

The world stopped. The lamp. The shadows. His breath. Hers. The two words hung in the air between them, impossible and real.

"What?" she whispered.

"Marry me, Paulina." His voice cracked on her name. "I know I don't deserve you. I know I'm not the man you should have chosen. But I'm the man who's been waiting for you. The man who will wait another ten years if you say no. I'll still be here. With Maja. With you. Always."

Tears slid down her cheeks, hot and silent. She couldn't see him clearly anymore, the lamp a blur of gold.

"Yes," she said. The word came out breathless, half-sobbed. "Yes, Mickle. Yes."

His forehead pressed against the back of her neck. She felt the shudder that ran through him, the tension he'd been holding finally breaking. His hand tightened on her hip, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick.

"You said yes."

"I said yes."

He kissed her shoulder, then the base of her spine, then the curve of her ass. And then he pushed inside her.

The stretch was immediate—deep, filling, the slow slide of his cock into her wet heat. She gasped, her fingers clenching the pillow as he buried himself to the hilt. He held there, his hips pressed against her, his breath harsh in the quiet room.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I forgot what this felt like."

"Don't stop."

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way, then thrust again. The rhythm was deep and steady, each stroke reaching the place inside her that made her see stars. His hands found her hips, guiding her, setting the pace. She pushed back against him, matching his rhythm, the slap of skin filling the room.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice strained. "So tight. So wet."

She moaned, her head dropping to the pillow. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear.

"I'm going to make you come, fiancee. You know that?"

The word—fiancee—sent a shiver through her. She clenched around him, and he groaned.

"That's it. Say my name."

"Mickle—"

"Again."

"Mickle."

His hand slid between her thighs, finding her clit. His thumb circled her, wet and insistent, as he fucked her from behind. The pleasure built, sharp and relentless, her body trembling on the edge.

"Don't come yet," he said. "Not yet. I want to feel you when you let go."

But she was so close. So unbearably close. Her thighs were shaking, her breath ragged, her cunt clenching around his cock with every stroke.

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

"Need what?"

"I need to come. Please."

His thumb pressed harder, faster, and his hips drove into her with a fierceness that stole her breath. "Then come for me. Come on my cock, fiancee."

The word broke her. Her orgasm crashed through her, wave after wave of heat, her body convulsing around him. She cried out, his name on her lips, her fingers clawing the pillow. He kept thrusting, kept touching her, drawing out every pulse of pleasure until she was limp, gasping, a puddle beneath him.

He pulled out and flipped her onto her back before she could catch her breath. His cock was slick and hard, and he was above her now, his knees between her thighs, his eyes dark and wild.

"Again," he said.

She couldn't speak. Her body was still trembling. He lifted her legs, hooking her ankles over his shoulders, and pushed inside her in one smooth motion. She moaned, the angle deeper than before, hitting something that made her see white.

"I'm going to marry you," he said, his voice trembling. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life inside you."

His hips moved faster, harder, a desperation overtaking his rhythm. His hand found her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse racing beneath his palm. Her hand covered his, her fingers threading through his.

"Come with me," she whispered. "Please, Mickle. Come inside me."

He groaned, his pace faltering. "You're going to be my wife."

"Yes."

She felt him swell inside her, his body tensing, and then he was coming—his hips driving deep, a growl tearing from his throat, his release flooding her. The warmth spread through her, and she came again at the feeling, her cunt clenching around him, milking him through every pulse.

He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His face buried in her neck, his breath hot and ragged. Her arms wrapped around him, her fingers stroking his hair.

They lay there, tangled and slick, their hearts hammering against each other. The lamp flickered, shadows dancing on the walls. Her legs slipped from his shoulders, falling to the bed. He shifted, his softening cock sliding out of her, and she felt the warmth of him leaking onto her thigh.

He didn't move far. He pulled her into his side, his arm pulling her close, his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I meant it," he said quietly. "Every word."

She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

"I know."

"We'll find a house. A big one. She needs a garden."

She laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "She does."

"And a dog. I always wanted a dog."

"You're going to spoil her."

"I'm going to spoil both of you."

She lifted her head, looking at him. His face was relaxed, open in a way she'd never seen. The mask he'd worn for a decade—the quiet, distant foreigner, the controlled professor—had fallen away. This was just Mickle. Her Mickle.

"I love you," she said.

His eyes widened. Then he smiled—a real smile, warm and unguarded.

"I love you too. I think I've loved you since the moment you walked into detention, all that defiance, that fire. I loved you even when I didn't know what to do with it."

She kissed him. Soft at first, then deeper, her hand sliding into his hair. He pulled her closer, his fingers tracing her spine, the curve of her waist.

They kissed until they were breathless, until the lamp burned low and the shadows grew long, until the night outside the window deepened into the small hours. And when she finally settled against his chest, her cheek over his heart, his hand in her hair, she felt something she hadn't felt in ten years.

Safe. Home. Whole.

The lamp flickered once, then stilled. The room settled into darkness, but she could still see his face in her memory, the way he'd looked at her when he asked her to marry him—like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. And she was. She knew it now. She had always been.

His arm tightened around her, and she fell asleep in the quiet dark, her hand over his heart.