She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a chaotic halo against the pillow. “Then stop looking and come here.”

“You love chaos,” he countered, kissing the corner of her mouth.

This wasn’t a performance. There were no perfect angles or rehearsed moans. When he rolled her gently onto her back, the old mattress springs squeaked in protest. They both laughed, breathless, foreheads touching.

It wasn’t a demand. It was an invitation.

He smiled, his fingers stilling on the curve of her waist. “I’m just… looking.”

“You’re thinking too loud,” Mia whispered, her lips brushing his jaw.

They moved together like a slow, familiar dance. A rhythm built from years of Sunday mornings and midnight confessions. It was a conversation without words: I’ve got you. I see you. I’m here.

“I love that sound,” she giggled.

Leo’s hand traced a slow, lazy path from Mia’s shoulder down to her hip. No rush. No script. Just the quiet hum of the city outside and the steady beat of their hearts.

“And you still fall for it every time.”

Her responses were honest—a sharp inhale, a whispered “please,” her nails raking lightly down his back. No fakery. When he finally settled between her legs, the look in his eyes was one of reverence, not hunger. She pulled him down, wrapping her legs around him, and the last sliver of distance vanished.