Your bodies were still tangled together, heat lingering where skin met skin, neither of you quite ready to move.

The room was steeped in a thick, intimate silence—no music, no city noise—just the uneven rhythm of your breathing slowly finding its way back to normal. Every inhale felt heavy, earned.

Joey was still over you, his weight familiar now, grounding. But the urgency from before had faded, replaced by something gentler. Slower. The kind of quiet that settles after a storm.

His fingers brushed your cheek, almost hesitant, then traced down the line of your jaw and your neck, lingering as if memorizing you. Not searching for mistakes. Searching for proof. For something to hold onto later.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

His eyes stayed on your face, open and unguarded in a way that made your chest ache.

You smiled—lazy, wrecked—letting out a breath that turned into a half laugh.

“You… destroyed me.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, a crooked, breathless smile, but there was vulnerability behind it, raw and real.

“You’re still alive, right?”

“Barely,” you murmured, voice hoarse, and he lowered himself just enough for his lips to brush your shoulder.

A kiss.

Then another, slower, at your neck.

Your chin.

Each one unhurried, reverent, like he was coming back to you piece by piece.

Eventually, he shifted, carefully pulling away, though it was obvious he didn’t want to. He reached for the blanket and drew it up over you, tucking it around your body as if sealing the moment, protecting it from the rest of the world.

“Stay still,” he said quietly, already reaching for his T‑shirt from the floor. “I’ve got you.”

You bit your lip, watching him move through the room, completely unbothered by his nakedness. His hair was a mess, his back marked, his shoulders still tight with leftover tension. He looked real. Human. Yours, in this moment.

He returned with a damp cloth and sat beside you, his focus entirely on you now. He cleaned you slowly, carefully, every touch deliberate and gentle. No rush. No words.

As if each movement said: I see you. I’m here. You matter.

When he was done, he tugged his T‑shirt over his head and slipped it onto you instead. It swallowed you whole, soft and warm, carrying the scent of smoke, clean fabric, and him.

“It looks better on you,” he murmured, his gaze lingering, darkening just slightly.

You settled back against the pillow, exhaustion finally catching up, and he immediately followed, lying on his side and pulling you into his chest like distance wasn’t an option. His arm wrapped around you securely, his hand resting where your heartbeat thudded against his ribs.

“You were incredible,” he said, voice low, sincere, his hand tracing slow, absent patterns along your thigh. “So good.”

Your heart skipped.

“You always say that…”

“Because it’s always true.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, studying his face from this close, the softness he rarely let show.

“Even when I push your buttons?” you asked quietly. “When I annoy you… call you an idiot?”

That almost‑sad smile appeared again, fond and a little tired.

“Especially then.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Warm.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead—slow, steady, safe.

“Stay here with me tonight,” he said softly. “Please.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”