He doesn't speak. His hand finds hers in the dark hallway, his calloused palm rough against her skin, and he leads her. Past the familiar doors, to the one at the end that’s always shut. The guest room. He pushes it open, the air inside stale and cool, untouched. Moonlight filters through the gauzy curtains, painting everything in shades of blue and gray. He turns to her, his storm-cloud eyes black in the half-light, and his breath hitches—a sound so quiet she feels it in her own chest.
His hands come to the hem of her sweater. They are shaking. He gathers the soft wool, lifting it slowly, his knuckles brushing the skin of her stomach. She raises her arms, a silent surrender, and the sweater passes over her head, taking with it the scent of old books and grief. The cold air hits her, raising goosebumps. He drops the sweater to the floor, his gaze fastened on the plain cotton bra now exposed, on the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
His fingers fumble with the button of her jeans. The rasp of the denim is loud in the silent room. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and eases them down her hips, kneeling as he goes, following the descent of the fabric. He helps her step out of them, one foot then the other, his hands lingering on her ankles, her calves. He is on his knees before her, his forehead nearly resting against her thigh, breathing hard into the space between them.
He looks up, his eyes traveling the length of her. The bra, the simple cotton panties, her bare legs. His expression isn't desire, not purely. It’s devastation. A raw, terrified awe, as if he’s dismantling his own last defense and finding her there, waiting. The vulnerability has crossed over to him, and it cracks something open deep inside her, hotter and more dizzying than any command he’s ever given.
“Claire.” Her name is a bruise on his lips.
He reaches for the clasp at her back. His trembling fingers struggle, blunt and clumsy. The clasp gives. The bra loosens. He doesn’t pull it away, just lets the straps slide down her arms, his gaze locked on the reveal. The fabric falls. The cold air, then the heat of his stare on her bare skin. She stands there, laid bare in the moonlight on the faded quilt of the unused bed, and he finally sees her. All of her. And he looks ruined by it.
His hand lifts, trembling, from where it rests on his own thigh. It hovers in the air between them for a breath, a silent question, before it finds the curve of her hip. His palm is searing hot against her cool skin, the calluses rough and perfect. He doesn’t grasp, doesn’t pull. He simply rests it there, as if anchoring himself to the reality of her. A reverent stillness. Then his thumb moves, a slow, deliberate sweep across the crest of her hip bone.
She lets out a shaking breath she didn’t know she was holding. The touch is an electric current, grounding and devastating all at once. He leans forward, his forehead pressing against her lower stomach. His breath, hot and damp, fans over her skin. She feels the shudder that works through him, a tremor that starts where his face touches her and echoes out through the hand on her hip.
“I’m lost,” he whispers into her skin, the words muffled, raw.
Her hands come up, her fingers sinking into the thick, dark waves of his hair. It’s softer than she imagined. She holds him there, not forcing, just anchoring him as he anchors her. This close, she can smell the sawdust and salt on him, the scent of the Ethan she remembers, now fractured by this new, terrifying proximity. His other hand comes up to mirror the first, settling on her other hip, framing her. His thumbs stroke slow, hypnotic circles on her skin.
He tilts his head back, looking up the line of her body. Moonlight catches the stark hunger and terror in his eyes. His gaze is a physical touch, warming her skin wherever it lingers—her ribs, the underside of her breast, the hollow of her throat. He shifts, turning his head to press a kiss just below her navel. Not a kiss of passion, but of surrender. His lips are soft, parting slightly against her. She feels the damp heat of his tongue, a fleeting, shocking point of contact that makes her stomach clench and a low sound catch in her throat.
“Ethan.” It’s just his name, but it’s a plea, a permission, a confession all in one.