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And I just handed it to him.

I just told him I love him and meant it and now I can’t breathe properly and I don’t know what to do with my hands and my brain is screaming at me to run or laugh it off or do something that makes this less real but I can’t because it’s already real and he’s still looking at me with that expression that makes my throat tight.

Stop thinking.

New June is a woman of action. She doesn’t spiral; New June handles things.

So I kiss him.

I lean in and press my lips to his before my brain can talk me out of it, before I can second-guess or panic or do anything else that Old June would have done. The kiss is meant to be a distraction. A way to move past the vulnerability. A way to make this about bodies instead of feelings because bodies I can handle and feelings I’m still figuring out.

He kisses me back immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. His mouth is warm and soft and tastes like coffee and bacon and something that’s just him. I kiss him harder, trying to take control, trying to make this into something I can manage.

But he’s being gentle.

His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. His thumb strokes the side of my neck in small, soothing circles. He’s not trying to dominate or control or take.

He’s just kissing me like I’m something precious.

And that’s somehow worse.

I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against his, trying to make it rougher, more urgent, more about physicality and less about whatever this emotion is that’s trying to drown me. My hand fists in his shirt, and I pull at it, needing it off, needing skin against skin, needing something I can control.

He helps me pull his shirt over his head, and then his hands are on my waist, sliding under my t-shirt, warm against my skin. I shiver at the contact and pull my shirt off, toss it somewhere, and then we‘re kissing again and his hands are on my back, my sides, touching me like he’s learning the shape of me.

I unhook my bra and let it fall away.

His mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone, down to my breasts, and I arch into him, my hands in his hair.

This is better.

It is physical.

It is something I can understand and control and dominate.

But when I try to push him back against the pillows, he resists. Not with force. Just with a gentle pressure of his hand against my shoulder and a soft sound against my skin.

“June,” he says, and his voice is rough but tender. “Let me.”

The words should annoy me. Letting him take control is what Old June did, and New June doesn’t do that anymore.

But there’s something in his tone.

It’s about care. About wanting to give something instead of take.

My jeans come off. His follow. We’re both naked now, the light filtering through the curtains and making his skin glow pale gold. The bruises on his face are darker in this light. The bandage on his side is stark white against his ribs.

He’s looking at me like I’m beautiful. Like I’m everything.

I don’t know what to do with that.

So I kiss him again. It’s rough until it isn’t, until my determination melts against his gentleness.

So I let him guide me down onto the bed beside him. Let him roll onto his side, facing me, his hand trailing down my body with a slowness that makes my skin prickle with sensation.

“Turn around,” he says.

I do. My body responds before my brain can question it. I turn so we’re head to foot, and then his hands are on my hips, gentle and guiding, positioning me where he wants me.