She’s curled against me, hair messy, skin warm under my fingers. The world outside is loud, but here—right here—there’s only the faint sound of her breathing and the rhythm of my own pulse.

Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, and I can’t stop staring. The kind of stare that’s not lust or desire anymore; it’s awe, ownership, reverence all at once.

I brush a stray lock of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger along her jaw. She stirs, nestling closer without waking, and I feel my chest tighten.

The sheets smell like her. Sweat and skin and something only she could leave behind. I press my hand to the small of her back, tracing her spine lightly—memorizing her like a map I never want to lose.

“Mine,” I murmur softly, almost as if saying it aloud will keep her here forever. My thumb brushes over the faint marks my hands left before, the traces of what we just shared.

She shifts again, curling tighter against me, murmuring something in her sleep I can’t catch. I lean down, placing a kiss on her temple, gentle, reverent—never violent, never careless.

I’d kill for her. I’d die for her. And yet, right now, I do neither. I just stay still. Just hold her. Just let her breathe. Let her know, without words, that in this moment, she’s safe.

The rest of the world can wait. I won’t. Not as long as she’s here.

I stay until her breathing deepens, until her small fingers curl against my chest like a silent promise. Then I let myself relax—just slightly—because she’s mine, and she’s here.