Breaking the Grid

Christmas morning

The first thing I felt was heat. Not the kind from the sun—though that was there too, sneaking through the curtains and falling directly across my face—but the kind that was alive.

Soft limbs tangled in mine. A body draped completely over me, heavy with sleep and warmth. And her scent—coconut and sun cream and Kyra.

I blinked slowly, the world coming into focus with lazy resistance.

My head was half buried in the pillow, but what I could see confirmed what I already knew.
Kyra was still there. Still on me.

One leg slung high over my hip, her arms curled around my waist like a stubborn child clinging to a favorite toy. Her face was pressed against my neck, the edge of her hair tickling my collarbone.

I shifted just slightly, breathing in, trying to move one hand—but before I could do much, I heard her grumble.

A quiet, needy sound.

"Don't," she muttered, voice low and rough from sleep. "Stay asleep..."

My head fell back onto the pillow with a smile I didn't bother to hide.

"I am asleep," I whispered, even though I wasn't. "I'm just dreaming of you crushing my ribs."

Her only response was a huff into my skin.

I slid my free hand down, slow and instinctive, and rested it on the smooth dip of her back.

Bare skin.

My fingertips traced light, lazy circles along her spine—up and down, side to side—without thinking, without intention, just... needing the contact.

Her breathing was still slow, her body melted against me like she'd been asleep on me for hours. I stared at the ceiling, the glow of the sun soft and golden across the white paint, and let myself just feel her.

The weight of her. The softness. The calm.

Minutes passed—maybe five, maybe ten. I lost track somewhere between the way her hair smelled and the sound of her sleepy breaths.

Then I felt her shift.

Her arms tightened around me just slightly, and her thigh slid in closer, pulling our bodies flush again.

Her chest pressed to mine.

I felt her move her head, slow and smooth, her nose brushing against my neck.

And then—
Her lips.

Hot and unhurried, she pressed them into the curve of my neck like it was a private promise. Not a kiss for show. Not something to be seen.

But something that was only for me.

I exhaled a quiet breath, my fingers pausing on her back.

"Hello, mi amore," I whispered, voice barely audible, half lost in the space between us.

She didn't answer right away. Not with words.

Instead, her lips moved again—another kiss, slower now, lingering longer. Her mouth opened just slightly this time, just enough for me to feel the warmth of her breath and the graze of her teeth.

My hand stilled against her back.

Goosebumps. Everywhere.

I felt her shift again, her lips finding a new spot just below my jaw, then one closer to my collarbone.

She still hadn't spoken.

And somehow, she didn't need to.

The way her body clung to mine, the way her hands slid up my ribs, the way her lips worked across my skin—slow, teasing, reverent—told me everything.