4

His hand finds mine, interlocking our fingers, and he brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. The gesture is so tender, so deliberate, that it makes my breath catch. Then he guides my hand lower, until my palm presses against him. He's still hard, still aching, and I feel the pulse of him against my skin.

"You don't have to do anything," he says. "But if you want to touch me, I'd like that."

I wrap my fingers around him, and he shudders, his eyes fluttering closed. I stroke him slowly, learning the shape of him, the weight, the way his breath hitches when I find a spot he likes. His hand covers mine, guiding me, showing me what feels good.

"Like that," he breathes. "Just like that."

I watch his face as I touch him—the way his jaw goes slack, the way his hips roll into my hand, the way he says my name like it's the only word that matters. And I realize this is intimacy too. This is trust. This is him giving me something even when I couldn't give him everything.

His breathing quickens, and his hand tightens around mine. "Bella, I'm close. If you want to—"

"I want to." The words come out before I can think about them. "I want to see you."

He groans, his head falling back, and I feel him pulse against my palm, hot and thick. And then he's coming, his body tensing, his breath catching, and I watch his face transform with the release. He's beautiful like this—vulnerable, undone, completely mine.

He lies there for a moment, chest heaving, and then he turns to me, pulling me close. His lips find my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth.

"Thank you," he whispers, and the words are so raw, so sincere, that I feel them in my chest.

I curl into him, my head on his shoulder, and we lie there in the dark, the weight of everything unsaid settling around us. The secret is deeper now. The line is crossed and crossed again. But somehow, I don't feel afraid.

I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

His hand traces lazy patterns on my back, and I feel my eyes growing heavy. The adrenaline of the night is fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that makes every limb feel heavy.

"You should sleep," he says.

"Stay?"

The question is small, vulnerable, and I feel him hesitate. But then his arm tightens around me, and he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

"I'm not going anywhere."

I close my eyes, and for the first time in what feels like years, I let myself fall asleep without the weight of wanting something I couldn't have.

When I wake, the room is darker, the city lights casting long shadows across the ceiling. I'm alone in the bed, but the pillow beside me is still warm. I hear movement from somewhere in the penthouse, muffled voices, and I realize with a jolt—Callum is home.

I sit up, clutching the robe to my chest, my heart pounding. But then I hear Caleb's voice, casual and easy, and I let out a breath.

"She's still asleep. Long flight, I guess."

Callum's laugh echoes from the living room. "Yeah, she's always been a heavy sleeper. You staying for breakfast?"

"Yeah. Give me a minute."

Footsteps approach, and a soft knock sounds at my door. I grab my robe, tie it tight, and open it a crack. Caleb stands there, fully dressed, his hair damp like he just showered. His eyes find mine, and a small smile touches his lips.

"Morning," he says, low enough that only I can hear. "Sleep okay?"

I nod, still half-asleep, still caught in the haze of last night.

"Your brother's making pancakes," he says. "You should come out. Act normal."

I feel a flicker of fear, but his hand brushes mine, just for a second, and the fear settles.

"I can do normal," I say.

His smile widens, and there's a promise in his eyes. A secret, shared between us. "I know you can."

He turns, walking back toward the living room, and I watch him go. The secret sits warm in my chest, dangerous and precious. But for now, it's ours. And for now, that's enough.