[Floris’ POV]
The kiss breaks something open in both of us.
His hands are in my hair, fingers tangling through the strands like he's been waiting to do this for longer than either of us will admit. My back hits the closed door with a soft thud, and I'm pulling him closer, closer, closer—like I can't get enough, like the space between us is personally offensive.
Maverick lifts me easily, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The movement feels natural, inevitable, like my body knew what to do before my brain caught up.
His hands support me effortlessly as he carries me across the room, and I'm vaguely aware of the bed approaching before he lowers me onto the mattress without breaking the kiss.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His eyes search my face, and I can practically see him remembering—the chess night, my admission about never having time for relationships, never letting anyone close enough.
The pieces clicking into place behind those green eyes.
"Floris." His voice is rough, careful. "Do you really never done this before?"
I nod my head once, suddenly nervous. Heat floods my cheeks, and I wait for him to slow down, to treat me like something fragile that might shatter.
To pull away entirely.
Instead, his eyes darken in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"Good," he says, and the word is almost a growl. "I want to be the only one who knows what you sound like when you come apart."
I gasp, the words send fire through my veins, pooling low in my belly.
He kisses me again, slower now, deliberate. Learning the shape of my mouth while his hands map the curves beneath my dress. Every touch feels like discovery—like he's memorizing me, cataloging every response for future reference.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against my lips. "At any point. I mean it."
"I don't want you to stop." My voice comes out breathier than intended. "Please don't stop."
Clothes disappear between kisses. My dress, somehow unzipped and sliding off my shoulders. His sweater, pulled over his head with an efficiency that suggests he's been thinking about this moment too. My bra follows, and his hands are reverent on my bare skin, tracing patterns that make me arch into his touch.
"You're so beautiful…" he says, and it doesn't sound like a line. It sounds like an observation, a fact he's stating for the record. "Absolutely, devastatingly beautiful."
"You're not so bad yourself," I manage, which is the understatement of the century because he's all lean muscle and warm skin and I'm having trouble forming coherent thoughts.
He just gave me a wicked small smile at the corner of his perfect mouth and continued discovering me with his hand, stripping last layers of fabric from my heated and oversensative body.
When I'm down to nothing, his gaze travels over me—and stops.
The scars on my thigh and hip, raised and silver in the low light, and I feel myself tense, the old shame rising like bile. An explanation is already forming on my lips, the story I've told myself a thousand times, the defensive words meant to minimize and deflect.
But before I can speak, his hands resume their path like they never paused. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, moving lower. He kisses my scars along with everything else—no hesitation, no questions, no pitying looks. Just acceptance.
He treats them like every other part of my body, like they belong there because they're part of me.
Somehow, that undoes me more than any words could.
"Still okay?" he asks, lifting his head to check my face.
"More than okay." My voice cracks slightly. "That was just... thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for treating you like you deserve to be treated." He presses a kiss to my hip, right over the largest scar. "These are part of you. And I want all of you."
He's over me now, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress in a way that should feel suffocating but instead feels grounding. Safe. His knee nudges my thigh—a gentle command—and I spread my legs, hooking them around his waist, pulling him closer until there's nothing between us but heat and anticipation.
"This might hurt a little," he warns, positioning himself at my entrance. "Tell me if it's too much."
"I will." I take a breath, letting it steady me. "I trust you."
The first press of him against me makes me gasp. He goes slow, agonizingly slow, watching my face with an intensity that makes me feel seen in ways that go beyond physical. Every inch is careful, measured, punctuated by soft questions.
"Okay?"
"Yes." It does hurt a little—a stretch, a burn—but I don't want him to stop. "Keep going."
He sinks into me inch by inch, and when he's fully inside, he stills. His forehead presses against mine, both of us breathing hard. I adjust to the feeling of him—full, overwhelming, inexplicably right. Like something clicking into place that I didn't know was missing.
"Tell me when," he says, and his voice is strained with the effort of holding back.
"Now. Please."
Then he starts to move, and everything else falls away.
He builds me up slowly, learning what makes me moan, what makes my nails dig into his back. Every movement is deliberate, every adjustment based on my reactions. He's studying me like I'm the most important exam he'll ever take, and he intends to score perfectly.
"God, Floris." His voice is wrecked. "You feel incredible."
"Don't stop," I manage. "Please don't stop, I'm so close—"
He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly I'm seeing stars. The tension that's been coiling in my belly snaps, and I shatter around him with his name on my lips. He follows moments later, and hearing my name from him while he comes apart is something I'll remember forever.
He holds me close, still inside me, pressing kisses to my hair, my temple, the corner of my mouth. I feel changed—cracked open and remade into something new.
Something that belongs partly to him now.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly, shifting to look at my face. "I didn't hurt you?"
"I'm perfect," I tell him, and I mean it with every cell in my body. "Absolutely perfect."
He pulls me closer, and I curl into his warmth like the heat-seeking missile I apparently become in my sleep. But this time I'm awake, and this time it's deliberate. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back while my breathing slowly returns to normal.
"For the record," I say eventually, "that was significantly better than chess."
His chest shakes with surprised laughter. "High praise, considering your passionate opinions about bishops."
"I still think they're underrated." I press a kiss to his shoulder. "But this is definitely my new favorite game."
"We can play again," he offers, something warm and promising in his voice. "As many times as you want."
"Careful with offers like that. I'm very competitive. I demand rematches."
He kisses my forehead, and I feel him smile against my skin. "I'm counting on it."
I close my eyes, wrapped in warmth and the impossible reality of this moment. Whatever happens next, whatever complications await us outside this room—right now, I'm exactly where I want to be. And for the first time in a very long time, I'm not pretending to be fine.
I actually am.