God, I missed his taste. His mouth. The way he makes me feel when he kisses me with those red, impossibly soft lips. I pull him closer—if that's even possible—my fingers roaming over his chest, pushing off his jacket before curling around his neck. My tongue explores his mouth hungrily, desperately, like I've been starved for him. And in a way, I have.

I gasp for breath, only to dive back in. His hands are in my hair now, fingertips brushing the back of my neck, gentle—too gentle for the heat that's blazing inside me. Where I'm fire, he's control. And I want him to burn with me.

I kiss him so hard I feel it in my bones. My lips nibble, demand, tease. My tongue toys with his, coaxing, calling. He groans into my mouth—and I want to devour it.

But then—

"Ash... Ashley, wait," he pants, lips brushing mine as he tries to pull back.

I whimper without meaning to, a sound that betrays just how badly I want him. Need him. I lean in again, terrified that if I let go, he'll disappear. That this moment—this perfect impossible moment—will slip through my fingers like mist.

But he takes my wrists gently, peels my hands from the back of his neck, and brings them between us. My chest rises and falls quickly, erratically, as I stare at him in confusion.

"Nooo..." I protest, trying to steal another kiss, but he stops me with one more firm, lingering look.

"Ashley," he says, "I'm serious" his voice firm, steady.

"So am I," I try to tease, hoping to lighten the tension, but he doesn't budge.

"Are you?" he counters, brows drawn together, hands still holding mine. "Because I am."

The way he says it, the conviction in his voice, steals my breath.

"You can't kiss me like that and then walk away. You can't regret it in the morning or pretend it didn't happen," he says, and I can see he's fighting hard to stay calm. "Because this—" he motions between us, "this isn't a game. Not to me."

He lets go of my hands, softly, giving me space... and choice.

"I don't want to feel this way about you," I blurt, almost accusing him.

He stays quiet, still, waiting for me to unravel.

"I didn't expect you, Harry. I didn't plan for you. You... you came out of nowhere and messed everything up."

His lips twitch, but he lets me keep going.

"And I was fine. Before. At least I thought I was. But now..." I shake my head, my words falling apart, emotion climbing higher in my throat.

"You make me feel things I haven't felt in years. Things I thought were long dead. And I don't know what to do with that," I finish, voice barely above a whisper.

He's still watching me, quiet, eyes soft but so sure. He gives me the space to find the truth for myself—and I do.

"I want this," I finally admit. "I want you. But I need to know that you're serious. That this isn't just a... a phase. A rebellion."

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving mine.

"There's a lot at stake now," I murmur. "So much more than before."

"We'll be careful. We'll protect it," he promises softly, like a vow only meant for the two of us.

I nod. It's not enough, but it's everything.

He smiles then, slow and cocky, that boyish charm breaking through.

"So... you want this?"

"Yes," I breathe.

"You want me?"

I exhale shakily, every part of me on fire. "I do."

Before the words have fully left my mouth, his lips are back on mine—this time slower, deeper, filled with something that wasn't there the first time: certainty. He kisses me like I belong to him, like I've always belonged to him. And maybe I have.

His hands trail down my arms, brushing my sides, fingertips dancing over my waist as he slides the hem of my top up and over my head. I shiver under his touch, every nerve alive. His lips follow the curve of my jaw, my neck, my shoulder—each kiss sealing a silent promise between us.

"You can't imagine how long I've waited to hear you say that," he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, reverent.

Soon I'm standing bare before him, vulnerable and trembling, and he steps back just slightly—not to leave, not to stall—but to see me.

To really see me.

His eyes darken as they roam slowly, taking in every line, every scar, every soft curve. My chest rises and falls under his gaze, and for once I don't feel the need to cover myself. Because he's not looking at me with lust alone—he's looking at me like I'm something rare. Something precious.

Something his.

He breathes in, almost like the sight of me is something holy.

"Ashley..." he says again, like my name is a prayer.

And I know—we both know—there's no going back now.

He discards his clothes slowly, purposefully, calculating each move. I stay silent—it's my turn to watch, to admire. If someone were to walk in, they might think us odd, standing here like this, so still, so reverent. But after everything... after all this time, we're allowed to relish it. Every breath. Every inch. Every unspoken word.

He slides his boxers down and my breath hitches. His body—sculpted, strong, familiar—is even more perfect than I remembered. My eyes wander lower, and I gasp.

"Is this new?" I ask, already knowing the answer. My voice sounds distant. Stupid.

"It is," he smiles softly, stepping closer. "Wanted a reminder of you."

The tears come fast, clouding my vision, the starfish design on his inner thigh shimmering like a promise under the kitchen light.

But he doesn't let me cry. Not tonight. His arms are around me before I can fall apart, his warmth swallowing me whole.

And then it happens.

Right there, against the counter, he reclaims me.

The moment he enters me, it's like resurrection—like being torn down and reborn, all in one trembling breath. A phoenix rising from years of numbness. I clutch him, helpless to stop the moan that escapes me. I feel alive. Present. Wanted.

His rhythm is steady, reverent. Each thrust like punctuation to a vow he's never spoken out loud.

"I missed you. So fucking much," he whispers in my ear, his breath hot on my skin as he moves inside me again and again.

"You feel amazing... God, you smell like heaven. I missed you."

"Ashley, is it as good for you as it is for me? Because this—you—this is everything."

"I missed you."

"I missed you."

"I missed you."

The words repeat like a sacred chant, unravelling something inside me. And this is how the night unfolds—his body marking mine, his hands worshipping me, his mouth reminding me what it feels like to be alive.

And I welcome him back. Not just into my body—but into everything I thought I'd lost. My femininity. My sexuality. My right to be wanted. My right to want.

We fall together. We rise together. Neither of us hits the ground.

I call his name. Over and over. I whisper yes, and more, and please. And when it ends, I want it again. That four-letter word defines us: More. Always more with him.

Later, in bed, it's different. Softer. Slower. Full of laughter and gentle teasing. I giggle as he rearranges me like a puzzle he already knows how to solve. I kiss his cheek as he moves inside me. He smiles. I trace his spine with my fingertips like I'm learning him all over again.

This is what heaven must be. This is what it means to feel whole.

Eventually, we collapse into a tangle of limbs and breath and whispered nothings. His head rests on my stomach, one arm holding me like he never wants to let go. I stroke his hair until sleep claims us both.

And when the first morning light peeks through the curtains I forgot to close, I stir. I climb out of bed to shut them, shivering instantly at the loss of him beside me.

"Where are you?" he mumbles, still half-asleep.

"I'm here, Harry."

He doesn't answer. He just smiles, content, and pulls me close again. His arm drapes over my waist, his breath warming the back of my neck. And in that moment, everything feels exactly right.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, plotting. Plotting how we make this work. My job. My daughter. My reputation. All of it at risk. And yet—for reasons I can't explain—I don't care. Not really.

I want this.

I want him.

Would Jason understand? I don't know. He never met Harry. He never saw what I see. Would Anzette understand? She'll be heartbroken, maybe. But Harry believes she'll get over it. And my job? We'll be discreet. We have to be.

Simon? That's a storm brewing. But storms pass. We'll be careful. As for my mom? I laugh out loud imagining her reaction. A few dramatic threats of heart failure, no doubt.

But Elizabeth?

Elizabeth will commission a statue of me.

I smile and feel Harry stir behind me, kissing my shoulder before drifting back to sleep. I follow him soon after, lulled by the comfort of something that feels so impossibly right.

The buzzing of my phone startles me awake. 9 a.m.

My bed is empty.

I rub my eyes. He must be in the shower.

I throw on my robe and reach for my phone. Liz's name flashes across the screen. I silence it. I'll call her later.

I get up and check the kitchen. No sign of him. I prepare the kettle for tea, humming under my breath, but something doesn't feel right. His keys—gone. His phone—gone.

I walk back to the bedroom.

All his clothes are gone.

My heart drops.

I rush to the bathroom.

Nothing.

Panic claws at my throat as I grab my phone and dial.

"The number you have dialed is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a mess—"

"Damn it, Harry. Damn you."