The grey light of dawn seeps through the curtains, painting a pale rectangle across the dark hardwood floor. Victoria feels the soreness between her thighs like a secret she's not ready to share—a deep, tender ache that pulses each time she shifts, each time she remembers the stretch of him, the way he'd held still until she broke. His arm is still locked across her waist, heavy and possessive, his breath warm against the curve of her neck, slow and even. She should move. Should reclaim her body before the sun fully rises, before the world demands she be Victoria Hale again.
But her muscles won't obey. When she shifts experimentally, his arm tightens—a reflex, unconscious, and she feels the possessive weight of it settle deeper into her bones. Her body clenches around nothing, a phantom memory of fullness, and she presses her thighs together against the sudden heat. She is hungry for a man she's supposed to control.
His chest is warm against her back, solid and steady. She can feel his heartbeat—slow, patient, unafraid. The clock on her nightstand reads 6:17. She has forty-three minutes before the world expects her to be composed, precise, untouchable. Forty-three minutes before she has to decide what this means—what he means—in the calculating light of day.
She turns slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake him but needing to see his face. The grey light catches the line of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. His arm shifts as she moves, and his hand slides from her waist to her hip, settling there like he's claiming her even in sleep.
Her throat tightens. She remembers his hands—callused, steady—cupping her face, threading through her hair, tracing her spine. The way he'd held her after, arm locked across her waist, fingers threaded through hers on her stomach. The way he'd said nothing, just breathed with her, letting her fall apart against him without needing to fix it.
She reaches up and traces the line of his brow with her fingertip, feather-light. His eyelids flutter but don't open. She lets her hand drift down his cheek, feels the roughness of his stubble against her palm, and something cracks open in her chest—a door she's kept locked for years, held shut with precision and distance and the cold armor of control.
The bed is warm. His body is warm. And for the first time in longer than she can remember, she doesn't want to leave it. She presses closer, her forehead against his chest, her lips brushing his skin. She feels his arm tighten around her, a reflex of possession that should make her pull away but only pulls her closer.
His hand moves up her spine, slow and asleep, tracing the ridge of her vertebrae like he's memorizing her even in dreams. She shivers, and his breath catches—a small sound, almost a question—but his eyes stay closed. She lets herself stay here, in this grey dawn quiet, her body pressed against his, the soreness between her thighs a pulse she doesn't want to stop feeling.
The clock ticks to 6:23. She has thirty-seven minutes. She presses her lips to his chest and closes her eyes, letting herself have this—just a few more minutes—before she has to decide who she is in the light.
The grey light has shifted, growing brighter, and she can see the dust motes floating in the beam—tiny particles suspended in the stillness, like moments she's trying to hold. His arm is warm across her waist, his breath steady against her neck, and she feels the weight of his body anchored to hers. She doesn't move. She lets herself feel the ache between her thighs, the tenderness of being claimed, and she presses closer instead of pulling away.
The clock ticks to 6:29. She has thirty-one minutes.
His hand moves against her hip—slow, deliberate—and she feels the calluses catching on the silk of her skin. His fingers trace the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, mapping territory he's already claimed. She holds her breath, waiting, and when his lips press against the back of her neck—soft, still half-asleep—her body responds before her mind can stop it. A small sound escapes her throat, a surrender she hasn't given permission for.
He stirs. His arm tightens, pulling her closer, and she feels his chest press against her back, the heat of him seeping through her skin. His voice comes rough, gravelly with sleep, barely a whisper against her shoulder. "Hey."
The word is simple. Unguarded. It cracks something open in her chest.
She turns in his arms, facing him, and his eyes are still heavy-lidded, soft in the grey morning light. He looks at her like she's something he's still dreaming, and she reaches up to trace the line of his brow again, letting her thumb drift down his cheek. He leans into her touch, a reflex so natural it steals her breath.
"Good morning," she says, and her voice sounds foreign to her—quiet, tentative, stripped of the precision she's spent decades perfecting.
His hand finds her hip, fingers spread, and he pulls her closer, fitting her body against his. She feels the heat of him along her thighs, the press of his morning hardness against her belly, and her mouth goes dry. He doesn't rush. He just holds her, his thumb tracing slow circles on her skin, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You stayed," he says. It's not a question, but there's wonder in it, like he's still learning to believe it.
She should say something composed. Measured. She should reclaim control before the sun fully rises and the world demands she be Victoria Hale again. But his thumb is still moving against her hip, tracing lazy patterns that undo every wall she's built, and the only thing she can find in her throat is the truth.
"I didn't want to leave."
His eyes darken, something shifting in their depths—hunger, yes, but also reverence. He presses his forehead to hers, and she feels his breath, warm and uneven, mixing with hers in the small space between them. His hand slides up her spine, cups the back of her head, and he kisses her—slow, deep, tasting like sleep and heat. She lets him. She lets herself be held in this grey dawn quiet, his mouth on hers, his body pressed against the hollow ache between her thighs. She lets herself want him, here, now, with thirty minutes left before the world demands she be untouchable again.