The door barely clicked shut before Ash was on you, hands gripping, pulling, desperate.

It had been six months since he got arrested for one of his crimes. Six months where he could only see you through a glass when you visited him in prison. Six months of absence, of longing, of imagined touches, poured into every move.

He kissed you everywhere—mouth, neck, shoulders—like he was trying to memorize you all over again. Your hands clutched at him, trembling, unsure, almost afraid of how much you wanted him.

Clothes fell away like they’d been holding back every second of this craving, but even as your body leaned into his, there was a hesitation—a strange, fragile reluctance. You wanted him, needed him, but you didn’t quite know how to be this vulnerable anymore. How to surrender fully, after all that time apart.

When he entered you, slow and deliberate, your body responded instinctively, skin burning at every touch, but your mind wavered.

He noticed immediately. His movements slowed, hands pausing, looking up at you as if to check if you were truly okay. His voice, low and rough, broke the tension:

“Hey,” he murmured, stopping completely mid-motion, fingers brushing your face. “Don’t—don’t hold back from me. I need you with me, not afraid.”

You swallowed, breath shaky, trying to pull yourself together. “I… I don’t know how to do this anymore,” You whispered, voice trembling. “I want it, I do, but…”

He stopped you. “Hey, hey.” He looked at you for a second before kissing you. It was slow. Passionate. Holding back not to rush you. When he pulled back, he kept his lips close to yours before whispering “…it’s okay. I’ll make you remember. Take your time, we’re not in a hurry, okay?”

You nodded, allowing him to keep going. He started moving again, slowly, while making sure to shower you with kisses and touches to make you feel safe and more comfortable.

But it was too much. You tried to hold it back. Desperately. Tried to touch him back. But at some point, a small sob escaped you, muffled into his shoulder. You clutched at him, nails digging into his arms.

At first, you thought he wouldn’t notice. But then he froze. Mid-thrust, his dark eyes snapped open, scanning your face, catching the first tears rolling down toward your temple and the soft trembling of your lips.

“Angel,” he said, his voice grounding as he cupped your face, his forehead pressing to yours. “…You want me to stop?” He asked, wiping a tear with his thumb.

You shook your head, taking a shaky breath, “No…I just— missed you so much,” you admitted, voice breaking, trying to keep your sobs silent.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips, soft at first, lingering, letting you catch your breath, letting you feel safe. Then he moved with a careful intensity, slow and deliberate, like every touch and every thrust was a promise: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Your body began to respond more fully, but the hesitance lingered. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured, voice rough, low. “Relax. Let me feel you. Let yourself feel me.”

You let your hands roam over him again, the tension in your grip softening, your body melting into his pace. The tears didn’t stop completely, but they weren’t sad tears. They were overwhelming tears. And he made sure you were okay, that you wanted this as much as he did. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered praise stripped another layer of that distance you’d been forced into.