He Stayed

Isadora:

I woke to warmth.

Not the lazy kind that settles from thick blankets or the sluggish creep of morning sun—but the kind that hums low beneath your skin. That kind of heat that sinks into your bones and clings. That pulls you from sleep like a lover’s whisper, coaxing rather than demanding.

I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was.

Rhett.

His arms wrapped around me like they were made for it—firm, grounded, protective. One hand rested over my stomach, palm splayed like he was trying to memorize me by touch alone. His breath came steady, slow, like a lullaby pressed against the back of my neck.

And my body—traitor that it was—relaxed into him.

Not out of fear. Not out of survival.

But something else.

Something quieter. More terrifying.

I didn’t flinch at the sensation of being held. Didn’t brace for the tension, for the cold snap of withdrawal that always came after affection. I didn’t tense, didn’t anticipate pain or detachment or some hidden agenda beneath the contact.

I just… let it happen.

I let him happen.

My body stilled in that space between waking and dreaming, where everything was raw and real and impossible to lie to. My breathing matched his without effort. My heartbeat seemed to slow until it aligned with his like some shared secret between our skin.

His warmth chased out the cold. That ever-present chill in my limbs—the one I never noticed until it was gone—melted under the heat of him. Like he’d set something inside me alight. A silent, smoldering thaw.

And it scared the shit out of me.

Because I didn’t want to move.

I didn’t want to shatter whatever this was.

Silas was already gone. I could feel it—the shift in the air, the subtle drop in temperature where he used to linger. He never stayed long. He couldn’t. That wasn’t his way.

He haunted the room like a memory—one that chilled the edges of the bed even when he was gone.

But Rhett?

Rhett burned.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I wanted to bask in that fire.

Eventually, he stirred. A quiet sigh unfurled against the shell of my ear before he moved, slowly, like he didn’t really want to. His arm lifted from around me, a deliberate withdrawal. And even though it was gentle—like the peeling away of silk—I felt the absence like a wound.

My chest ached.

He sat up beside me. Still. Wordless. The golden tangle of his hair fell messily across his forehead, and his eyes—those sharp, wild eyes—found mine.

I couldn’t look away.

He studied me the way no one ever had. Like he saw me. All of me. The broken pieces I tried to bury. The jagged edges I swore no one would ever love.

He rose to his feet like he meant to leave—and some part of me caved.

But then… he didn’t go.

He turned.

Came back.

And leaned over me.

I blinked, heart caught in my throat, not understanding what was happening—until he straddled me. Slowly. Carefully.

His knees pressed into the mattress on either side of my hips, his hands braced above my shoulders. His body hovered above mine—not with hunger. Not with heat.

But reverence.

A kind of reverence that made my lungs freeze.

He wasn’t holding me down. He was anchoring me. His weight, his heat, his scent—all of it surrounded me like a shield. And yet somehow, I didn’t feel caged. I felt safe.

And gods help me, I didn’t know what to do with that.

His chest hovered inches from mine. Bare. Warm. Golden skin brushed with faint scars and stories. I wanted to trace each one. I wanted to ask. To learn. To memorize.

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

And then—he kissed me.

Soft. Slow. Deliberate.

Like a promise.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t greedy. There was no attempt to devour or dominate. It was a kiss made of stillness. Of quiet knowing.

Like he was answering something I hadn’t dared voice.

And I felt it. In my ribs. In my spine. In the part of me I thought I’d buried too deep for anyone to reach.

His lips tasted like sleep and fire. Like something wild trying its damnedest to be gentle. Something that had only known war trying to speak the language of peace.

My fingers lifted before I could stop them, grazing his chest, tentative—like touching him might wake me up from this. But before I could hold on, he pulled back, breath uneven.

His lips parted like he might say something.

But he didn’t.

He just looked at me.

And in his eyes—I saw it. That same aching want. That confusion laced with longing. He didn’t understand what was happening between us anymore than I did.

But gods, he felt it too.

His hand lifted to my face, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek with a tenderness that unraveled something inside me. Then slowly—deliberately—he kissed me again. This time lower. Along my jaw. Then my throat.

Lower.

Each kiss was a question.

My body gave the answers.

His mouth found the edge of my shirt, teeth tugging the fabric up, revealing skin inch by inch. He kissed along my sternum, the center of my chest, down to my stomach—his lips painting heat across my skin like fire meeting snow.

I was melting.

Dissolving.

He looked up at me once—eyes burning gold—and whispered, “I can smell your excitement, Isadora.”

My breath caught. My thighs clenched.

Oh gods.

He growled. Low. Rough. Ferocious.

Then he slipped down further, tugging the waistband of my pants with reverence laced in urgency. And when his mouth met skin, I nearly came undone. His tongue was velvet. His lips—starved. Every movement deliberate. Worshipful.

He wasn’t just touching me.

He was memorizing me.

Learning what made me gasp, what made my hips rise, what made my breath stutter. He devoured me like I was sacred. Like this moment was more than lust—it was hunger, yes, but it was also awe.

It was a man tasting something he never believed he could have.

He didn’t stop. Not when I cried out. Not when I came apart beneath him, shattered and molten and trembling.

He held me through it.

He stayed.

Kissed my thighs like benediction before crawling back up to cradle me in the aftermath. Like I was something precious.

Like I wasn’t broken.

Like I wasn’t made of ruin.

I stared up at him, raw and breathless, and whispered, “Why are you still here?”

His brow furrowed. “Because I can’t leave.”

And I knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just about sex.

It never had been.

This was about choosing to stay. About defying every instinct to run or retreat or self-destruct. This was about finding warmth in a world full of cold.

And maybe—for just one night—I could believe in that.

Believe in him.

Believe in us.

Even if it was temporary.

Even if it burned.

I’d still choose the fire over the frost.

Every time.