Fear

43

Every breath was shallow, uneven, ghosting across my lips. I felt it — the way he was holding back, even after my consent. Every muscle taut, every touch careful, like he was terrified of hurting me. If that's not ironic, I don't know what is.

But I was already hurting, physically and emotionally, and so was he. Both as fucked up as each other. Both traumatised and broken in our own ways. This wasn't a soft, romantic relationship. This was messy. Complicated. It had been from the start.

My pulse was loud in my ears, but the fear that once wrapped itself around me was strangely quiet. This was different. Tentative. Testing. Every touch seemed to ask, Are you sure? And with every shuddering breath, every way I moved against him, I answered: Yes.

The room filled with sound — soft gasps, the rustle of sheets, his broken whispers against my skin. His body was heat and solidity, caging me in but not suffocating. For once, that cage felt chosen.

His mouth found mine again, no longer tentative. Hungrier now, but not as I expected. A kiss that poured everything he couldn't say — guilt, regret, fear, longing — straight into me. He kissed me like he could stitch me back together with it. Like it would save him, too.

His hands roamed upward, sliding beneath my nightshirt, splaying wide across my ribs, trembling slightly as though every inch of me was sacred. I didn't stop him. When he pulled the shirt over my head and tossed it aside, his breath caught. Not a smirk. Not satisfaction. Just awe.

"You're fucking beautiful, Em," he murmured against my nipple as he took one into his mouth. "So beautiful..."

I arched beneath him, letting out sounds I didn't know I could make. He pressed me into the mattress, solid and grounding, like a weighted blanket. His heartbeat hammered against my chest — too fast, too alive.

There was no rush in his movements. No violence. Just the careful slide of skin against skin, the cautious exploration of mouths and hands. Gentle gasps and quiet moans.

When his boxers joined my clothes on the floor, I felt him hesitate, pressing his face into the crook of my neck like he was bracing himself.

"Ty," I whispered, softer this time, stroking my hand through his damp hair. "I want this... I want you..."

His body shuddered against me, letting out a low, satisfied groan at my words.

He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes. For a second, neither of us breathed. His pupils were blown wide, but there was no wildness in them, only the kind of raw honesty I'd never seen him show anyone else.

I cupped his jaw, my thumb brushing over the sharp edge of stubble. It flexed beneath my palm, like he was fighting back a thousand words he'd never let himself speak. The weight of his gaze held me there, suspended in a fragile moment where everything else fell away — the noise, the history, the hurt.

"I don't..." His voice broke, rough, unsteady. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I don't know how to do this without screwing it up."

My hands moved to the back of his head, and I pecked a kiss on his nose. "Then screw it up with me. We'll figure this out together..."

"You make it sound so easy."

I let my fingers tangle in his hair, coaxing him closer, until there was no space left to question what this was becoming. He exhaled, shakily, like surrender.

"I'm not good at this," he admitted again, softer this time, almost pleading.

I brushed my thumb over his cheekbone, smiling through the ache in my chest. "Good. Neither am I. But maybe that's the point."

For the first time, he let out a quiet laugh, small but real.

I shifted my weight again, wincing but trying not to show it, bringing my legs up to wrap them around his waist. He groaned at the contact.

"Go ahead..." I whispered, placing a final kiss on his lips.

And that was all it took.

He entered me slowly, so slowly it almost hurt, but his eyes never left mine. Searching. Asking. The stretch made me gasp, but I didn't pull away.

Every movement after that was careful, restrained — like he was terrified of taking too much, too fast. His thrusts were shallow at first, controlled, but the raw emotion in his eyes betrayed him. His jaw clenched, his breaths ragged, his body fighting against its own need.

I snaked my arms around his shoulders, forced him to look at me when he tried to hide against my shoulder again. "It's okay," I breathed. "I'm not afraid."

Something shifted then. His rhythm deepened, still slow but more certain, his hips meeting mine in a steady, grounding cadence. Every movement said what his mouth couldn't: I'm sorry. Please let this be enough. Please forgive me.

Pleasure built gradually between us, quiet but undeniable. Not wild, not frantic. Just desperate. Necessary.

When release finally tore through me, it was silent — my nails clutching at his back, my mouth against his shoulder to muffle the sound I made. His followed moments later, a shuddering collapse into me, his whole body trembling as he buried his face against my neck.

He didn't cry... at first. But his voice broke when he whispered, breathing heavily, against my skin.

"Forgive me... please, Emily. Please."

I swallowed hard, still shaking, still wrapped around him. I couldn't lie. Not now.

"I'll never forgive you," I whispered back, my lips brushing his ear. "But... we can move on."

His breath caught, sharp and unsteady. And then he held me tighter, as though those words were both punishment and salvation. His forehead pressed to mine, sweat dampening his hair. "I'm sorry... God, I'm so sorry..."

I kissed the words off his mouth. I couldn't let him drown in them. Not yet. His face returned to the crook of my neck, hiding there.

At first I thought it was just the comedown, the trembling aftermath. But then I felt him — his chest shuddering, his body shaking against mine. Wetness streaking against my skin.

He was crying.

Not soft tears. Not silent grief. Shaking, broken sobs, raw and strangled.

"I hurt you," he choked. "All of it... every fucking thing I did to you... the Acts, the pain, the cruelty— I can't—" His voice shattered, throat scraping hoarse.

We lay there in silence, tangled in sweat and heat and all the ghosts of what we'd done — what he'd done to me.

"Tyler..."

I wasn't sure what to say, or how to say it. I wasn't sure if any words right now could reassure him. Because he was right. He'd hurt me. And now forgiveness seemed furthest from a realistic decision I could make.

I tightened my hold on him, my own tears sliding silent into my hair.

I didn't tell him it was okay. It wasn't.

I didn't tell him I forgave him. I wasn't sure I could.

Instead, I tapped his back, urging him to look up at me. When he did, his face was crumpled in grief, his eyes red, lashes wet, his mouth trembling like a man too tired to keep walls intact. He sobbed silently, then pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"I'll never hurt you again... I promise."

Neither of us moved. Neither of us dared. Because for the first time, there was no wall between us. No cruelty. No manipulation.

Just ruin.
Shared.

-