It was a rush—clothes abandoned wherever they happened to fall, fabric whispering against the floor as if even gravity was in a hurry. The world narrowed to the bedroom, to the soft dip of the mattress as Mark followed you down, breath uneven, movements urgent but strangely careful. He was on top of you in seconds, quick kisses pressed to your mouth, your jaw, your throat, as if he were afraid that slowing down might give doubt time to catch up.

His hands lingered more than they moved. They trembled, hovering before touching, as though he still feared leaving some invisible stain behind—something ugly, something unworthy. You’d already told him, more than once, that this wasn’t true. You’d scolded him, gently and not so gently, made him look at you when you said it. But Mark had always carried his ghosts close; some beliefs dug in deep and refused to be shaken loose.

He finally touched you, reverent despite the urgency, fingers warm and uncertain. His breathing was loud in the quiet room, every inhale betraying him. When his hand slid up to cup your face, the motion slowed, like he needed to anchor himself there. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, tentative, almost disbelieving.

Mark looked at you from beneath his lashes, eyes unfocused, glossy with too many feelings he didn’t know how to sort through. He should have been stronger than this—he told himself that all the time. Stronger, colder, more like the version of himself he pretended to be. But you unraveled him with frightening ease.

You weren’t just temptation. You were gravity.

You were the only person he loved, the only one he allowed this close, the only one he wanted to keep untouched by the violence of the rest of his life. With you, his chest ached in a way that hurt and healed all at once. You made him feel alive again—terrifyingly so—as if his heart had remembered how to beat properly and refused to forget.