Aaron doesn’t speak as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch is gentle, careful, but there’s something deliberate in it — a quiet urgency. He looks up at you once, eyes searching yours for permission. And when you give it, he lifts the fabric slowly, pulling it over your head. Your hair falls around your shoulders, your breath catching as the shirt drops to the floor.

Without a word, he steps back and tugs off his own shirt. You watch the muscles in his arms move, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to calm a storm inside himself. Then his hands move to his waistband. He slides his pants down, pushes them away until he’s left in nothing but a pair of black boxers, golden skin flushed with warmth.

Then he’s in front of you again, reaching for the button on your jeans.

“Let me,” he says, voice quiet. “Please.”

You nod, and he undoes the button, then the zipper — slow, tender — and guides your pants down your legs. When they pool at your feet, he pulls you into his arms without hesitation. Warm skin meets warm skin. Chest to chest. Stomach to stomach. His bare arms wrap around you like he’s trying to anchor himself in the moment.

You feel his breath ghost along your neck, steady but uneven.

“Aaron,” you whisper, “why are you doing this?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just holds you tighter. His hand slides across your back, fingertips trailing down your spine. Then he exhales — deep and shaky — and speaks softly against your skin.

“Because it helps me.”

The words are raw. Honest. Like a truth he rarely lets himself say out loud.

“It’s not just about comfort. There’s science behind it. Skin-to-skin contact — it helps regulate your nervous system. It lowers cortisol. That’s your stress hormone. It calms your heart rate. It stabilizes your breathing. It tells your body you’re safe.”

You feel his grip on you tighten slightly, his voice lower now, reverent.

“It releases oxytocin. The bonding hormone. It quiets the fear. The noise. It reminds you that you’re not alone.” He swallows. “It reminds me.”

He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed, skin warm.

“I need that right now,” he whispers. “I need you. Like this. Just skin. Just warmth. Just the quiet proof that I’m here. That you are.”

You don’t say a word. You just press yourself closer to him — and feel his breath steady against your collarbone.