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“You’re back,” he says.

“I said I would be.”

“Best birthday,” he says. Quiet. “And then it got better.”

I cross the room. I don’t say anything else, because there isn’t anything else to say — we’ve said the big thing already, a week ago at midnight, and tonight isn’t about saying it again. Tonight is about everything underneath the saying.

I climb into his lap the way I know how to now. Knees on either side of his hips. His hands find my waist, and I lean down and kiss him slow, unhurried, tasting the birthday cake still faintly on his mouth.

“Happy birthday,” I murmur against his lips.

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again. With feeling.”

He laughs — the real one, the rare one — and it turns into something else when I roll my hips against him, when his hands tighten at my waist, when the kiss stops being soft and starts being something with intent behind it.

We take our time.

That’s the difference tonight. There’s no game to get to, no library to sneak out of, no clock we’re racing against except the one we’re setting ourselves, slow, deliberate, savoring. He gets my sweater over my head. Takes a second just to look at me. His mouth finds my collarbone, my throat, the curve of my shoulder, and I arch into him. His hands work the clasp of my bra like he’s done it a hundred times — because he has — and it still feels like the first time. Every single time.

“I love you,” he says. Into my skin. Like it’s easier to say there than to my face, even now, even a week in.

“I love you too.” I pull back to look at him. “Say it to my face.”

He does. Steady. Certain. “I love you.”

I kiss him hard for that. He flips us — gentle, controlled, the strength I’ve felt a hundred times and still catch my breath at. Now I’m on my back and he’s over me, and his mouth works down my body with the specific attention of someone who has learned every place I respond to and intends to use all of that knowledge tonight.

He gets me out of everything else. He gets himself out of everything else. And then his mouth is between my thighs and I’m gripping the sheets and saying his name like it’s the only word I remember, and he doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, until I’m right at the edge and begging without meaning to.

“Theo — please —”

He comes up my body. Settles between my legs. His forearms bracket my head and I reach down between us, taking him in hand, and he groans low in his throat when I guide his hard length to my entrance.

“You sure?” he asks. Always asks. Every time.

“I’m sure.” I hook my legs over his forearms, opening myself to him, and the change in angle makes him swear under his breath. “Now, Theo.”

He pushes in slow. Inch by inch, watching my face the whole time, and the stretch of him at this angle — legs hooked high, nowhere to go but deeper — has me gasping his name before he’s even fully seated.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel — Margo.”

“I know,” I manage. “I know.”

He starts to move. Long, deep strokes, my legs still hooked over his arms, and every thrust hits somewhere new, somewhere that makes my back arch off the mattress and my nails find his shoulders. He’s not holding back tonight. There’s no reason to. No one to be quiet for, no wall to worry about, just the two of us and a bed and everything we’ve been building toward for months.

“Harder,” I gasp. “Please, I need —”

He gives me what I ask for. The headboard knocks softly against the wall with every thrust, and I don’t care, and neither does he, and the sounds coming out of me are nothing like the managed version of anything — they’re raw and real and completely unhidden.

“You’re mine,” he grits out, hips snapping forward. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.” My voice breaks on it. “I’m yours, Theo, I’m —”

I come apart around him. Back bowing. His name torn out of me on a sob of pleasure. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow — chases me right through it and over the edge himself, groaning my name into my throat as he empties inside me, his whole body shaking with it.

For a long moment neither of us moves. My legs slide down from his arms. He stays where he is, forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard, and I feel his heartbeat against my chest, wild and settling.