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Normally, I would go slower. I like control, the attention to detail, and making my partner wait. But the roll of Kayla’s hips against mine reminds me this is not about manipulation. I want to give her exactly what she is asking for.

I release her wrists, and she brings her arms up, looping them around my neck, her fingers running over my nape. She pulls me down and kisses me hard, and I brace one hand against the cabinet behind her as I give her what she wants. I fuck her on the counter as the cabinets behind her rattle with the force of my thrusts while she gasps into my mouth.

With limited room to move, I push my hands under her thighs and walk us until her back meets the wall.

She locks her legs around me, bracing herself against it.

“There,” she moans breathily. “Right there.”

As I drive into her again, she grinds against me, wanting more. I move us toward the bed, giving her back a break from the friction of the wall. When we reach the bed, we both fall onto the soft surface, and she sits up to throw her leg over me, pressing her hands to my chest. I take her face between my hands, and she makes a sound low in her throat, which has me half sitting up to capture from her mouth.

“Ares,” she moans, and I grab her hips, working her up and down my length.

Kayla’s eyes widen, and she finds her rhythm quickly, but when I feel the overwhelming need to come, I sit up and swing my legs to the side of the bed, pushing to a stand. My cock is still deep inside her as she clings to me, and I stride toward the sofa, then lift her off and place her gently down before spinning her around and bending her over the arm. Her hands are braced on the cushions, and my hands grip her hips as I carefully thrust back inside her, causing her fingers to curl into the plush fabric.

Pulling her back into me as I slam forward, I fuck her hard, knowing I will come at any moment. Rotating my hips on the next thrust, I adjust my angle, drawing out a sound from her that is half curse and half inarticulate moan. I do it again as she pushes back against me and slide my arm around her, my fingers finding her clit and moving in the slow, steady circles I know she likes.

She drops her head forward. “Fuck . . . Ares.”

“What do you need?” Though I already know, I want to hear her say it.

She moans, her hips working against my hand. “I need to come.”

“Then come,” I whisper. “No one is stopping you.”

I keep my hand exactly where it is but pick up my pace, and she grinds against my fingers on every thrust.

She comes with my name on her lips, loud and unapologetic. Her entire body trembles, and I press my forehead against her spine as I spill into her.

I don’t know how love feels.

I have read about it, observed it in other people, but I have never had a true reference point for what it feels like. Yet if it feels like this—like wanting someone to have everything they need, with no agenda—then maybe I have been capable of love the whole time. I just needed the right person to walk in and refuse to believe anything less of me.

Once we’ve both caught our breath, she turns in my arms, her cheeks still flushed and her hair a mess. She puts her hand against the side of my face, and I cover it with mine. “I love you, Ares.”

She smiles as I meet her eyes and lean into her hand. “I don’t have the same words you do, but whatever I’m capable of, it’s yours. All of it.”

And I believe every word I’ve spoken. It’s not a line to make her feel better about saying she loves me, though I can’t say it back—I just need more time to figure things out. I’m learning that maybe I’m not who I thought I was, or perhaps it is possible that a single person can make you relearn all your behaviors because you want to be a better person for them.

We both get dressed and load her things into the truck, and before we take the last load downstairs, she does one final spin in her old space.

“I thought I would feel weird about leaving,” she admits with a sigh.

“It’s okay that you don’t.”

She nods. “Thank you for coming with me.”

I stand beside her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I would follow you into the pits of hell.”

She laughs, and normally I would question why, but I know it’s because she knows I am telling the truth.

We carry the last two boxes down the stairs; I take the heavier one, and she doesn’t argue. She is quiet, and I know as much as she says she wants this, she has to feel something. People always do when they leave a place they have lived—it’s human nature. We put her things in the back of Brawley’s truck, and I close the tailgate while she waits on the pavement, looking up at the building.

“Do you want to see if Mabel is back?” I ask her.

Kayla shrugs. “What if she cries?”

“Then she cries.”