Her fingers found the hem of his shirt before she decided to move them. The cotton was soft, worn thin from washing, and she felt the heat of his skin through it. She lifted it slowly, giving him time to stop her.
He didn't.
The fabric rose over his ribs, and she saw it—a burn scar, puckered and pale, running from his lower ribs to his hip. Below it, a bruised shadow faded yellow-green across his shoulder blade. Her breath caught. She traced the burn with her fingertips, feeling the raised tissue, the way his skin tightened under her touch.
"Job?" she whispered.
"Framing house. Hot wire arced." His voice was flat, like the story didn't matter. "Caught my shirt before I could jump back."
She moved her hand to the bruise. He flinched, just barely. "This one?"
"Beam swung wrong. Didn't clear in time."
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the bruise, light as breath. She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, steady and too fast. He was watching her—she could feel his gaze on her bowed head, heavy and waiting.
"I didn't know," she breathed.
He cupped her face. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, gentle, insistent. "You know now."
The cot creaked as he shifted, pulling her closer. The bare bulb caught the silver chain at her throat, and his hand dropped to it. The pendant swung forward—a small circle, worn smooth from years of touching. His fingers closed around it, and she felt the years between them collapse.
He didn't ask when she'd started wearing it. He didn't need to.
She was seventeen when he gave it to her. She'd worn it every day since, even through the years she'd tried to forget him. Even through Chicago. Even through the nights she'd sat on that platform, staring at the tracks, wondering if she'd made a mistake leaving.
His thumb traced the pendant once. Then he let it fall back against her chest and pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. She watched his lashes tremble against his cheek, and she didn't look away.
She stayed still, her breath shallow, her forehead pressed to his. The warmth of his skin soaked into hers, and she could smell the sawdust in his hair, the faint salt of sweat. Her fingers were still resting on his chest, over his heart, feeling it thud steady and strong.
She tilted her head—just a fraction—and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. A question. Soft as a held breath.
His eyes opened. Hazel, dark in the dim light, found hers. He didn't move, didn't speak, but something in his gaze shifted—cracked open, let her in. Then his hand slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, and he closed the distance.
His lips met hers. Gentle. Careful. Like he was asking the same question back.
She answered by pressing closer, her mouth softening against his. The kiss was slow, unhurried, tasting of dust and the faint copper of old wounds. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, and she felt the tremor in his hand—fine, barely there, but real.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the worn flannel. She felt the heat of his body through the fabric, the hard plane of his chest, the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. She kissed him again, deeper this time, and his breath hitched against her lips.
When they broke apart, it was only by a hair. His forehead stayed pressed to hers, his hand still cradling her neck. She could feel his breath on her mouth, warm and uneven.
"Emma." Her name was a hoarse whisper, cracked at the edges. He didn't say anything else, didn't need to. She felt the weight of it—the years, the distance, the waiting—all compressed into that single syllable.
She pressed her lips to his again, soft, answering.
Her mouth parted against his, and the kiss shifted—deepened, softened, lost its careful edges. She felt his breath catch, felt the way his hand tightened in her hair, pulling her closer. She pressed into him, her fingers sliding from his chest to his shoulder, tracing the curve of muscle beneath his shirt.
His skin was warm. She wanted more.
She tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, and he broke the kiss just long enough to let her lift it over his head. The fabric fell somewhere behind them, and she was suddenly aware of him—bare-chested, breathing hard, his eyes dark and fixed on her. The scarred tissue on his ribs caught the light, and she traced it again with her fingertips, this time without hesitation.
He watched her. His hands rested on her hips, fingers pressing into the denim of her jeans, not pulling, just holding. Waiting.
She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his collarbone. A soft, open-mouthed kiss, tasting salt and dust. He shuddered—a fine tremor that ran through his whole body—and his grip on her hips tightened.
"Emma." Her name was a warning. A question. A prayer.
She didn't answer with words. She kissed her way across his chest, her lips brushing the edge of his scar, her tongue tracing the line where burned skin met whole. He was gasping now, his chest rising and falling under her mouth, his fingers threading into her hair again, holding her there.
Her hand drifted lower, over his stomach, feeling the hard plane of muscle, the way it tensed under her touch. She felt the heat of him, the tremor in his thighs, and when her fingers brushed the waistband of his jeans, his breath stopped.
He caught her wrist. Gentle, but firm.
"Slow," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "Please. Slow."
She looked at him. His eyes were wet, his jaw tight. He was trembling—not from cold, not from fear. From holding back, from wanting her so badly he couldn't breathe.
She nodded. Let her hand rest flat on his stomach, feeling his heartbeat under her palm.
"Okay," she whispered. "Slow."