“Vincent,” Mia whispered into the darkness of their bedroom weeks after the funeral, her voice raw from another night of quiet tears. “I keep waiting for it to hurt less, but some nights it just… aches. Like there’s a hole where he should be.” He turned toward her immediately, pulling her close against his chest. His hand stroked down her back in slow, soothing strokes. “I know,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple. “Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. But I’m here. Let me hold you. Let me help you feel something else for a while.” The grief had settled into their life like a heavy blanket, muting joy but also sharpening their need for each other. Mia shifted, seeking his mouth. The kiss started gentle, comforting, but quickly deepened into something hungrier, more desperate. Vincent’s hands roamed her body with familiar possessiveness, as if touching her reminded him she was still here, still his. He rolled her onto her back, kissing down her neck, across her collarbones, taking
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