The last of the gray morning light has shifted to something warmer, amber through the blinds, painting stripes across his bedroom floor. I don't know when we moved from the kitchen. I don't remember the walk. All I know is the edge of his bed pressing into my thighs, the worn cotton of his mattress beneath my palms, and the way he's standing behind me—close enough that I feel the heat of him before he even touches me.

I'm wearing his t-shirt still. It's bunched around my ribs from the counter, and I haven't bothered to pull it down. Why would I? This is what I wanted. What I've wanted since the first time I saw him catch my notebook in the hallway, since the first time his stutter broke over my name.

I hear him breathe. A long, slow exhale like he's steadying himself. Like he's standing at the edge of something he's afraid to fall into.

Then his hands find my thighs.

Rough. Trembling. His palms drag up the backs of my legs, from my knees to the curve of my ass, and I shiver, goosebumps rising across my skin. His fingers are warm and calloused, and I can feel every ridge, every line, like he's reading me through touch alone. He doesn't rush. He doesn't grab. He just slides his hands upward, slow and deliberate, as if he's memorizing the shape of me.

"Marcus."

His name comes out breathless. I don't mean it as a question, but it sounds like one—like I'm asking him to confirm that this is real. That he's really here, really touching me, really mine.

He doesn't answer with words. He steps closer, and his chest presses against my back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of his boxers. I feel his heartbeat—fast and hard, drumming against my spine. His breath ghosts across my neck, hot and unsteady, and I tilt my head to the side, giving him more space.

He takes it.

His mouth brushes my shoulder, soft, almost reverent. A kiss. Then another, higher, near the curve of my throat. His lips are dry and warm, and they linger like he's tasting me, like he can't believe I'm real.

I close my eyes.

His hands move. One slides up my thigh, over my hip, and finds the hem of the t-shirt. He hooks his fingers into the fabric, and I feel the cotton lift, inch by inch, baring my skin to the cooling air. The shirt rises past my waist, past my ribs, and when it reaches my breasts, he stops.

I'm exposed. Completely. The shirt bunched just below my collarbone, my back bare, my ass pressed against the front of his boxers. I feel him through the thin cotton—hard and thick, nestled against the curve of me.

He doesn't move.

He just stands there, his chest heaving against my back, his hand frozen on the shirt. I can feel him shaking. A fine tremor running through his whole body, like he's holding himself back by a thread.

"You okay?" I whisper.

A long pause. Then his forehead drops to the back of my head, resting against my hair. "I—I don't want to hurt you."

The words are barely audible. Stuttering. Raw.

I turn my head, just enough to see his reflection in the window—his face buried in my hair, his jaw tight, his eyes closed. He looks young. Vulnerable. Like he's carrying something so heavy he's afraid it will crush us both.

I reach back, my hand finding his hip, my fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers. "You won't."

He lets out a shaky breath. His hand finally moves—gripping my hip, steadying himself. The other hand leaves the hem of my shirt and finds my hair, gathering it at the nape of my neck, his fingers threading through the strands.

He pulls gently.

My head tilts back, my spine arching, and I feel the stretch of my body opening to him, ready for him. The pull isn't rough—it's careful, deliberate, like he's guiding me into position, making sure I'm comfortable before he takes what he wants.

"Lila."

The word breaks on his tongue, but he doesn't stop.

He shifts his hips, and I feel him—the head of his cock pressing against me, slick and warm. He lines himself up, and I hear him swallow, hear the catch in his breath as he holds there, just at my entrance, waiting.

I don't move. I don't speak. I just wait, my body trembling, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it.

He pushes in.

Slow. So slow I feel every inch, every fraction of him entering me, stretching me open. My breath catches, my fingers digging into the sheets, and I feel the fullness of him, the way he fills me completely, inch by inch, until I can't tell where I end and he begins.

He stops when he's fully inside.

I feel his hips against my ass, his thighs pressed to the back of mine, his chest flush against my spine. He's buried deep, unmoving, and the only sounds are our ragged breaths, the thud of my heart, the distant hum of the refrigerator.

He holds there.

His body shakes against mine—his hands trembling on my hips, his breath hot and uneven on my neck. He doesn't pull out. Doesn't thrust. He just stays, waiting, as if he's afraid that moving will break something.

I feel him inside me, and I feel the weight of what this means. He's not just inside my body. He's inside my life, my heart, my everything. And I'm inside him, too—wrapped around him, holding him, claiming him.

My eyes are closed. The room is silent except for our breathing. The morning has shifted to afternoon, the light turning golden, casting long shadows across the floor. I don't know how long we stay like that, but I don't want it to end.

Then he speaks.

"I—I love you."

The words are rough, barely a whisper, but they hit me like a wave, crashing through my chest, stealing my breath. My eyes snap open, and I see his reflection in the window—his face buried in my hair, his eyes still closed, his jaw clenched like he's terrified of what I'll say.

I feel him trembling. Waiting.

I don't answer with words. I reach back, my hand finding his, and I lace my fingers through his, squeezing. Then I roll my hips—just a fraction, just enough to let him know I'm here, that I'm his, that I'm not going anywhere.

He lets out a shuddering breath. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, his forehead pressing to the back of my head. And he stays inside me, unmoving, as the afternoon light holds us in its stillness.

I move before I think. My hand finds his—the one resting on my hip—and I guide it upward, over my ribs, past my collarbone, until his fingers brush the hollow of my throat. His breath catches. His palm is warm and broad, spanning my neck, and I feel his pulse against my skin, or maybe it's mine. Maybe they're the same now.

"I love you."

The words leave me quiet. Certain. I don't stutter. I don't hesitate. I just say it, let it hang in the amber light between us, let it settle into his skin.

His fingers tighten on my throat. Not hard. Just a pressure, a confirmation that he heard me, that he's holding onto the words like he's afraid they'll slip away.

He pulls out.

The emptiness hits me before I register the movement—a hollow ache where he was, a cold rush of air against my skin. I hear him breathe, a ragged sound, and then his hands are on my hips, turning me, guiding me until I'm facing him.

His eyes are dark. His jaw is set. And there's something new in his face, something I haven't seen before—a hunger that's been sleeping, waking up.

"Say it again."

His voice is low. Rough. The stutter is gone.

I look up at him—this giant of a man, trembling above me, his chest heaving, his hands gripping my hips like I'm the only thing keeping him upright. And I smile.

"I love you, Marcus Hayes."

He kisses me.

Not like before. Not tentative or careful. This kiss is deep and claiming, his tongue sliding against mine, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. I gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his teeth grazing my lower lip.

He pushes me onto the bed.

My back hits the mattress, the air knocked from my lungs, and before I can catch my breath, he's on top of me, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the sheets. His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head, and I feel the strength in him—the power he's been hiding, the muscle he keeps buried under baggy hoodies.

"You have no idea," he says, his voice strained, "how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

I don't answer. I can't. My heart is slamming against my ribs, and all I can do is look up at him, at the fire in his hazel eyes, at the way his chest rises and falls over mine.

He lowers his mouth to my throat, and I feel his teeth—a scrape, a bite, claiming. His tongue soothes the sting, and I arch into him, a moan slipping from my lips. His grip on my wrists tightens, and he shifts his hips, aligning himself with me, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.

He doesn't push in.

He hovers there, teasing, his breath hot against my neck. "You're mine."

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I'm yours." The words tumble out, desperate, hungry. "Marcus—please—"

He thrusts.

Hard. Deep. Filling me in one stroke, and I cry out, my back bowing, my fingers digging into the sheets. He doesn't give me time to adjust. He pulls out and drives into me again, and again, each thrust rougher than the last, his hips slapping against mine, the sound raw and wet in the quiet room.

He releases my wrists. His hand finds my throat again, pressing gently, and I feel the pressure—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who's in control. His other hand grips my hip, holding me steady as he fucks me, as he takes what he wants.

And I let him.

I let him take everything.

"Look at me."

I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, his forehead beaded with sweat, his jaw clenched tight. He's beautiful like this—raw and unguarded, the mask of shyness stripped away, leaving only the man underneath.

"I love you," he says, the words punched out with each thrust. "I love you, Lila. I love you."

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and I feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, consuming me. My nails rake down his back, and he groans, a low, animal sound that sends a shiver through my whole body.

He shifts his angle, and the next thrust hits something inside me that steals my breath. My vision blurs. My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out—just a silent scream, my body convulsing around him.

"That's it." His voice is gravel, rough and dark. "Let go. I've got you."

I shatter.

The orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave, and I'm not in control anymore—I'm just a body, just feeling, just him. He keeps thrusting through it, driving me higher, and I feel him tense, feel his rhythm falter.

"Lila—"

My name breaks on his lips. He buries himself deep, and I feel him come, hot and pulsing, his body shuddering against mine. He collapses forward, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his face buried in my neck.

We lie there, tangled and trembling, our breath ragged and uneven. The afternoon light has shifted to gold, painting his back in warm stripes, and I can feel his heartbeat—slow, steady—pressed against my chest.

He lifts his head. His eyes meet mine, soft now, the fire banked. He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear, and his thumb traces my jaw.

"I've never said that before," he whispers. "To anyone."

I reach up, my fingers tracing the scar through his eyebrow. "Neither have I."

He smiles. A real smile. Small and crooked, reaching his eyes.

I kiss him. Soft. Slow. A promise sealed in the space between breaths.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. "You know what this means, right?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

I let my fingers trail down his chest, over his stomach, lower. "You're mine now. Completely."

His breath catches as my hand wraps around him, finding him already stirring. "Lila—"

"No, no." I shift beneath him, pushing gently at his chest until he rolls onto his back. I straddle him, looking down at this giant of a man, this shy, stuttering boy who just fucked me like he owned me. "I'm not done with you yet."

His hands find my hips. His eyes are dark again, hungry. "Good."

I sink onto him, slow and deliberate, and watch his face as I take him inside me. His eyelids flutter. His lips part. His hands tighten on my waist, guiding me, and I start to move.

The afternoon light burns gold around us, and outside, the world goes on—cars passing, people living their ordinary lives. But in here, in this room, there's only him. Only me. Only us.

I don't know how long we move together. Time has stopped meaning anything. All I know is the slide of his skin against mine, the catch of his breath, the way he says my name like a prayer.

When we finally collapse, spent and trembling, I curl into his side, my head on his chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns through the hair on his stomach. His arm wraps around me, pulling me close, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head.

"Stay," he says. Just that. A word. A plea. A command.

I tilt my head up to look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He closes his eyes. A long, slow exhale leaves him, and I feel the tension drain from his body, the weight of whatever fear he'd been carrying finally released.

The trophy on his desk catches the light, throwing a long shadow across the floor. The afternoon is fading, the gold turning to amber, to rose, to the first hints of dusk.

I should call Chloe. Let her know I'm alive. But the thought evaporates the moment Marcus shifts, pulling me closer, his voice a low murmur against my hair.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you."

I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "You existed."

He laughs—a quiet, surprised sound, like he still can't believe I'm real. And I let my eyes close, let the warmth of him wash over me, let the world fall away.

Tomorrow there will be Pearl. There will be Derek. There will be the rest of the semester, the rest of the year, the rest of our lives. But tonight, there's just this room, just this bed, just the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.