Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.1

The morning was quiet. 

It was beautiful too, Tim guessed:

The sky slowly erupting into colour, reflected on the ocean below.

The flowers framing the patio, hundreds of them in hues of pink and purple, opening as soon as they were touched by the sun.

Tim wasn’t unaffected by it, but he knew he couldn’t see its beauty the way Lucy could. Couldn’t be quite in the moment yet the way she could.

But he tried.

It was hard. 

Just being.

Being present. Being there. 

Stillness. 

It didn’t come easy.

Was uncomfortable. Frustrating. Painful. 

But he tried because being there meant facing what lay buried within him, and there was still… a lot he wanted to fix. 

That he needed to fix. 

Because…

It was different now. 

Or maybe simply new. 

This was new because they hadn’t been on a trip together before. Now was after, and there were moments when Tim felt like he was sailing in uncharted waters. The easiness from before was gone and not yet recovered, and maybe it wouldn’t ever be. 

And it would be his fault. Was his fault. 

So—it was uncomfortable and frustrating and painful.

But he’d try anyway: Be present, be there. 

But the feeling remained.

Different. New. 

It sat heavy in his gut. 

Lucy found him like this a little while later when she walked out onto the patio, bare feet quiet on the sun-warmed tiles, hair wild around her sleepy face, and—underneath his grey LAPD T-shirt—naked, sparking memories of their love-making earlier before she’d gone back to sleep: her warmth, her body soft and supple under his touch. 

“Hey,” he said. 

A soft, sleepy sound that may or may not have been a word escaped her as she made her way over to the lounge chair, falling into the cushion beside him. Tucking her legs under, she curled up against his side, hand on his thigh, gaze directed at the ocean. It was calm this morning, smooth like glass, the line between water and sky blurred.

They sat there in silence as the sun climbed higher and the air grew warm and heady, heralding the kind of heat that made the world hold its breath and still.

“Coffee?” he asked quietly and started to get up but was stopped by her hand on his forearm. 

“I got it.” She smiled and rose, trailing her fingers through his hair before she disappeared inside, leaving him with that weight in his gut.

It was different now.

And Tim wondered if she felt it too. 

I.2

The heat clung like a heavy blanket, and by the time they reached the beach after their short walk, Tim’s shirt clung to his chest too. He stuck the sunshade carelessly into the sand and paused, momentarily distracted by Lucy stripping off her dress and revealing her black bikini, skin even more golden after a few days in the sun. 

She felt his gaze and turned, smiling slightly. 

“You’re staring.”

“So?”

Laughing, she gathered her hair into a messy bun and clipped it up—and then she was off into the water lapping gently at the beach while he shook out their towels and spread them on the sand.

The slight breeze rolling in from the ocean was cool against his sweaty skin when he pulled off his shirt, a brief moment of relief. Tim dropped down, braced on his hands as he watched Lucy swim, the water glittering around her.

It was quiet, the beach empty except for them, the only sound that of the waves breaking gently when they met the sand. In the distance, beyond the shimmer of distorted air, Tim could make out tiny dots of colour: people moving about the beach. 

This wasn’t his idea of a dream vacation: the ocean, the beach, the sand, which was everywhere—trickling out of his shoes and from between the folds of shirts taken freshly from his duffel bag. 

So the realisation that he liked it had come as a surprise, and Tim wondered what other changes lay hidden under the surface, unlocked by hours of therapy but yet to be discovered. 

But then, there were probably very few things he wouldn’t enjoy if he was doing them with Lucy. And seeing her smile—that easy, happy smile that had become rare lately—was worth every grain of sand he shook from his clothes at night.

“You should try it,” she said, emerging from the water a little while later and sitting down beside him, her wet skin cool against his. 

Tim snorted. “Not a chance.”

She chuckled and lay back on the towel, arms above her head, legs stretched out, wet sand clinging to her calves. 

The edges of the sunshade fluttered gently in the breeze.

“Thanks,” she said after while, her voice quiet.

“For what?”

“Coming here with me. I know you don’t like the beach.”

“I’d go anywhere with you.” He paused. “Just maybe not into the ocean.”

She laughed again, the sound loud on the empty beach, and then she reached up to kiss him, tasting like the sun and the sea.

I.3

He discovered new sides to her, too.

Or maybe they weren’t so much new sides as simply things that didn’t have room to grow and shine through within the routine of their everyday life. 

Or—maybe—they were new after all. They’d spent months apart, and Lucy had changed. 

Tim loved every version of her, and the intensity of his feelings sometimes scared him. These feelings had, in a way, been his downfall—the catalyst for his choice of punishment. So he wondered, occasionally, how many of the changes he observed were because of him. 

That new seriousness suited her and served her well in her new leadership role. The easiness she used to walk through life with had dimmed, though, her optimism and positivity no longer in infinite supply. 

And that, Tim feared, was on him, and in the morning—when she slept beside him, the light streaming through the curtains still grey instead of gold and only slowly filling with colour—this was where his thoughts took him.

Is this my fault?

Does she blame me for it?

And he didn’t have an answer. Because this was after. 

And he was adrift. 

I.4

The streets were empty save for a handful of tourists like themselves. Tim followed Lucy down a narrow alley, her heels clicking against the smooth cobblestones. It opened onto a square, small, but pretty: It held a small church, white-washed and bright, and a few cafes and shops. 

And above them the sky—blue and cloudless. The sun beat down on them, the midday heat just shy of stifling and the air still as if holding its breath. 

For a moment, he lost sight of Lucy, the sun’s glare blinding after the semi-darkness of the alley. When he found her again, just on the edge of the square, she was talking to some guy. Tall, dark-haired, hand cockily resting on his hip. Flirting. 

“…show you around,“ he was saying, confident, but his smile faltered at the sight of Tim, and he excused himself hastily. 

Lucy barely turned, just tilted her head, but the small smile on her lips told Tim that she knew exactly what had scared her admirer off. 

“Jealous?” she teased and wrapped her arms around his waist, close enough for him to smell her perfume and the sunscreen on her bare shoulders. 

“Yes,” he said easily. 

Her lips parted, surprised by his admission. 

“You know you don’t have to be.”

“It’s not about that.”

“What is it about?”

“I want everyone to know that…”

And there he paused, hesitant, suddenly unsure of himself. He would have easily said these words before: I want everyone to know that you’re mine.

But now was after, and the words wouldn’t come. 

“Know what?” A smirk, one hand wandering up to slide just inside the collar of his shirt and making his skin tingle. 

Something inside him gave way. 

“That you’re mine.”

“Possessive much?” Her other hand wrapped around the back of his neck, hot, fingers trailing through his hair. 

“I never heard you complain before.”

“Because I know you can’t help it,” she said, an indulgent smile tugging at her lips.

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Wow, that’s not condescending at all.”

Lucy dragged him down then and touched her lips to the edge of his jaw, just below his ear. 

“You know I don’t mind,” she whispered, and the soft timbre in her voice, the warmth of her breath made his heart hammer against his ribs and his pants suddenly feel too tight. 

She laughed brightly and, after a kiss that ended far too soon, she laced her fingers through his and pulled him with her out onto the square. 

I.5

 
The sky was bleeding colour, the heat of the day still lingering but softer now. The breeze ruffling the trees and tugging wisps of hair loose from Lucy’s bun promised relief. From where she sat in the lounge chair on the patio, arms wrapped around her knees, the noise of the waves rolling in was just a faint hiss.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

She scooted to the side so Tim could sit beside her, still in his jeans shorts and white linen shirt, sunglasses perching on his head. She unfurled, resting her head in his lap, eyes still on the choppy waves. His hand fell gently against her hip. 

They didn’t speak, another silence that hung between them—not exactly in a bad way but weighted nonetheless. 

Before, talking to Tim had been as easy as breathing and now—after—it was different, and Lucy didn’t quite know why. She’d forgiven him, she’d decided to be with him, she’d agreed to move in with him. And she would soon, a few days after the end of their first vacation together, most of her stuff already in boxes: a different before packed away, ready for yet another after.

She wanted this, this new stage of her life. But they were still in this strange in-between space, not starting over and not picking up where they’d left off, the water murky instead of clear, and she didn’t know how to navigate this stretch of ocean.

Maybe this was simply the natural progression of things when people tried to find each other again the way they were. When people had changed. 

And they both had, Tim more so than her, but they were different now, after, evident in a hundred things but most notably in the physical aspect of their relationship.

It wasn’t just about making up for lost time. Every touch, every caress, every kiss felt more deliberate now. Like it mattered. Like it could be lost again at any moment.

And Tim looked at her differently as well, with a quiet intensity that got under her skin in ways it hadn’t before—like he was holding on to her, afraid she’d drift off with the tide. 

But Lucy was holding on too, just differently. In a more physical way. Touch had always been important before. Now she felt like she wanted to crawl into him, live under his skin, because being close to him was easy. Had been easy in the months between before and after too. And now it was her anchor. 

And just like in that space between before and after it translated into sex. It went beyond want and desire. It was pure need.

But most of all it was… easy. 

In the shower after a day on the beach, hot water cascading down on them and dripping into her eyes as he held her up against the tiles. His fingers slipping on her wet skin when he grabbed her thigh and held her open for him. His mouth sucking on her nipple, wandering up her neck and finding her lips before he thrust into her. 

In the morning after waking up. Slow and sensual: lips on her neck just below her ear, sucking the spot that made her skin tingle all over and her stomach flutter; one arm wrapped around her, hand squeezing her breast and flicking and twisting her pebbled nipples; the other flung lazily over her hip, fingers dipped between her thighs, swirling and teasing, while his hips moved slowly to meet hers, sliding into her in long, measured strokes; their breathing loud in that morning quiet when the world was still. 

And at night when his body was a heavy weight on hers, her leg wrapped around his waist, heel digging into his hipbone as he pounded into her and filled her again and again, the line between pain and pleasure thin, his mouth on hers, breathing into her.

It was easy, so easy. 

“What?” Tim asked suddenly, and Lucy realised she’d been staring. 

The sky had turned deep blue, not quite night yet, but almost, shadows dancing across his face. 

Suddenly she was acutely aware of the heat pooling in her centre. 

Of that need. 

She reached up to touch his cheek, his stubble rough against her palm.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

II.1

Another morning. 

The wind rolling inland was stronger now and tasted of salt, the trees bending under its strength. Oleander blossoms lay scattered on the ground as if carelessly plucked off by an invisible hand. 

Tim was still asleep and hadn’t even stirred when Lucy stolen out—a rare occurrence because he was usually up with the sun. Now, she sat outside, knees pulled against her chest, the wind refreshing but almost shockingly cold compared to the previous days.

The sun was a milky glare behind the clouds, barely breaking through but no less intense in its force—the heat slightly subdued, maybe, but still clinging to her body, heavy despite the wind. 

She could still feel Tim on her skin. His big, strong hand against her throat, gentle and tender. His lips on her shoulder, breath quick and hot. Hips meeting hers, sometimes fast and urgent and shallow, sometimes slow and languid and deep. 

Just—perfect.

But different. Always different, and Lucy didn’t want it to be different. And, maybe, that was the problem. 

They were different. That was irrefutable. She felt different, even if she couldn’t quite name the changes about herself. Just that vague sense that she wasn’t the same person anymore.

And she’d seen more proof last night when she’d watched Tim drift off to sleep: the lines on his face smoothing out, his breathing growing deep and steady, tension draining away until he lay slack against the pillows. 

It hadn’t been the first time she’d noticed the changes about him, but last night they had struck her, suddenly, and she’d seen them in a way she hadn’t before. 

He was at ease now in a way he hadn’t been capable of before, no longer held himself tightly contained, always in control even when he didn’t believe himself to be. 

Even in sleep. 

He still found it hard. 

Just being.

Letting go. 

Lucy could tell—just as she could tell that he was making an effort. That he wasn’t done working on himself.

She’d watched him for a long, long time last night, fast asleep beside her. The white linen sheet pooled around his hips, bright against his tan skin. Face slack, lips parted, chest rising and falling. 

Different.

“Hey.”

His voice startled her, and she glanced up to find him standing in front of her, shaved and dressed. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

He sat down beside her, smelling of aftershave and sunscreen, and pressed a cup of coffee into her hand, steam curling lazily upward into the sky until it was scattered by the wind. 

Lucy rested her head against his arm, gazing at the rolling waves, the water a dark blue this morning.

“It’s different now, isn’t it?” she said quietly—and by the way his shoulders suddenly tensed she knew that he’d noticed it too. That he’d been carrying it around, same as her. 

She almost laughed.

God, they were stupid.

“Good different or bad different?”

She breathed out. Slowly. Deliberately. Maybe it just was, and they needed to accept it. Accept that it might not ever be like it was before and move on, because different didn’t mean that it was better or worse.

It meant just that—different. Unfamiliar. New. Territory that needed to be explored together so they could find out what different meant for them. Who they were now. 

After.

“Just different,” she said, smiling, and he relaxed, lips curving into a smile of his own as he nodded, once, in understanding. 

Just different.

And then they sat there, his arm around her waist and her palm on his thigh, looking out onto the restless ocean, the silence between them, if not easy, at least no longer heavy with things not yet acknowledged.

II.2

The waves were coming in quick succession, churning white when they crested and broke on the sand.

On the beach the wind was even stronger, the sky overcast now and looking like rain might come later that night. 

Lucy went to pick up a seashell, or maybe a stone, her yellow skirt billowing around her legs. Tim could have watched her like this for hours, hair loose in the wind, barely reined in by the sunglasses on top of her head. 

“You know there are weight restrictions, right? And probably laws about importing dead animals,” he’d told her a few days ago, eyebrows raised, when she’d added yet another handful of white and pink seashells to her collection on the dresser. 

She’d just smiled at him and shrugged. “I’ll release them before we leave.”

Release them, said matter-of-factly, like they were living things. 

He loved that about her—the ability to see the world differently than he. See it as more. See things from different angles when he got stuck. 

Just different.

And he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before when, most of the time, he could accept things for what they were just fine: It is what it is.

Why this had been so hard to accept that he hadn’t even seen it as an option but as an obstacle to their shared happiness, afraid she’d blame him for it. 

Maybe because you blame yourself.

And he did, didn’t he? Still. And he probably would for quite a while even if he knew that she’d forgiven him for what he’d done to them.

The need to punish himself for making mistakes ran deep.

So deep that—even though he now understood why he was the way he was—he’d always have to make a conscious effort to fight it. It would get easier with time. But it would most likely never go away completely.

Lucy saw him look then, or maybe she felt his gaze, aware of him the same odd way he was always aware of her. Tilted her head, hair streaming behind her, and smiled. And something inside him cracked wide open. 

II.3

They went out for dinner that night. The restaurant Lucy picked was small, intimate almost—tiny tables, candlelight, soft music. 

Nobody spoke English, and Tim stared, surprised, when Lucy conversed with the owner in a French that wasn’t quite fluent but certainly impressive. 

“How did I not know you speak French?” he asked after they’d been seated, baskets of low-hanging flowers above them, their heady fragrance making his head spin a little.

“I wanted to follow Aaron’s trial, so I taught myself.”

And Tim took her hand and laughed. “Of course, you did.”

Later, after dinner, the music picked up, and people started to dance, holding each other in tight embraces as they let the music carry them. Lucy watched, half-turned away from him, arm flung across the back of her chair. Now that they barely ever rode together this view had become rare—the soft curve of her forehead, the slope of her nose and lips in profile view. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate bun that exposed the side of her neck, and Tim wanted to lean across the table to press his lips to the fine lines of her tattoo, feel her body shiver the way it always did when he kissed her there, hear that low gasp. The flickering candlelight reflected off the necklace she’d taken to wearing again, and off her golden earrings.

She was so beautiful that it took his breath away, and she was— maybe, hopefully forever—his again. Since their conversation this morning he felt lighter, like he could finally breathe more easily.

They hadn’t danced since Nolan’s wedding, and his memories of that night and the weeks after—and his feelings— were difficult, but he got up now, chair scraping across the wooden floor, and held out his hand. 

Lucy looked up at him in surprise—and then she curled her fingers around his with a soft smile. They swayed gently to the slow beat of a song Tim didn’t understand, his hands at her waist and hers resting on his chest—just above his heart. 

And this moment, Tim thought, her body warm and soft and close, the scent of her perfume all around him, this was easy and not hard at all. 

“You’re doing it again,” she said suddenly.

“Doing what?” he asked, frowning. 

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She tilted her head, thumb brushing along the collar of his shirt and briefly touching his skin. “Like you’re in love with me.”

The world slowed and fell silent.

Tim swallowed. They’d talked about so much since the decision to try again, to be them again, and she’d be moving in with him soon. But these words—I love you—hadn’t been spoken yet. Because it was after and it was different, and Tim didn’t know where the current was taking him. But maybe that didn’t matter. And maybe it shouldn’t matter. 

And so he said them, these words, no longer holding back—because they did matter. 

“I am in love with you. I love you.”

Lucy pulled herself impossibly closer, fingers curling into his shirt, eyes dark and swirling with emotion as she held his gaze.

The world stood still and held its breath. 

And then her face softened, and the tenderness of her smile made his heart swell. 

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

They made it inside just moments before the heavens opened, and rain began to fall: a gentle drizzle at first that, within minutes, turned into a tropical torrent. 

Lucy stood by the window, heels still dangling from her hands, watching the water cascade down the glass. Tim was a faint shape behind her, radiating heat. Since the restaurant he hadn’t let go of her—not once—and his hands were on her now, his touch hot through the thin satin of her dress. She couldn’t make out the look on his face in the near darkness, but she felt it: the urgency of it, the heat, the want. Still held back, still contained, evident only in the tension pulsing in his body: hard against hers, breath coming fast. 

Lucy reached behind her and loosened the tie of her dress with a single, deliberate tug. It slid down her body, slowly, catching on the curve of her hip for a moment before pooling at her feet.

His breath caught. He stilled for a moment, or maybe two, looking, with that new skin-deep intensity. She felt it, his gaze, heavy and searing, and she felt what the sight of her body did to him, too—not only in the impatient hardness pressed against her, but also in the slight tremor in his hands as he trailed them slowly up her bare back, raising goosebumps in their wake.

Her centre coiled—tight, tight, tight—at the thought of him over her, inside, liquid heat already pooling between her thighs in anticipation and want. A gentle pull at the back of her head, and her hair came loose, spilling down her breasts in soft, dark waves. 

The reflection in the window:

The curves of her naked body, blurred and refracted by the water running down the glass. 

Tim’s tall form behind her—the soft, white glow of his shirt, his hand curving around her flushed cheek, tilting her head just so to expose the side of her neck and the fine lines of her tattoo. 

Lucy’s heart started hammering in her chest, her breath quickening—the air charged, crackling like a live wire. The tightness at her core shifted from want to need—sharp, sudden, almost painful. 

And again—different. This night was about more than simply being close to him. Whereas before she’d felt stuck in that unmoving calm of these murky in-between waters, everything was in motion now, the waves roiling, carrying her forward. 

I am in love with you. I love you.

She’d known. Of course, she had. And she loved him, desperately, but she’d been afraid to acknowledge it amid these murky waters between before and after, where everything felt different. And now—finally—she was moving.

Tim wrapped his hand gently around her throat—his tenderness still surprising her after all this time—his lips so, so close now, but not quite touching her. Still restrained, still holding back. 

Lucy curled her hand around the arm looped around her stomach, his muscles hard and tight under her touch, and whispered, quietly, into the darkness: “I love you.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure he’d heard her; the rain was loud, violent, beating down on the earth with a force that seemed intent on washing the little house away. 

But then, finally, his lips were on her, urgent and desperate in a way they hadn’t been since before. And she knew: he had heard. 

He kissed her, open-mouthed and hot and wet, and she tightened her grip on his arm at the sudden weakness in her legs. And then—unexpectedly—a sharp sting, soothed an instant later by the softest brush of his lips before her mind could even catch up. But she knew—he’d kissed her hard enough to leave a mark. 

Lucy turned in his hold and slowly walked back until her bare skin met the cool glass. Then she looked at him—really looked. His eyes were dark like the storm-tossed ocean outside, pupils blown wide, his need for her no longer contained but spilling over. 

He followed, their bodies moving in sync—or, maybe, he simply couldn’t bear the space between them. Had the same need to be close as she. 

She ran her hands down his chest, pausing briefly on his stomach, her wrist brushing against the hard line of his erection—lightly and not intentionally at all. But enough. He drew in a sharp breath at the touch, fingers biting into her back.

A look that made her insides flutter and her thighs clench, and then he wove his fingers into her hair, tilting back her head to kiss her—deep, demanding, just shy of too rough, exploring her mouth with his tongue: tasting like wine and the coconut tart he’d had for dessert. 

She reached for the buttons of his shirt, blindly, fingers trembling as she undid them one by one, his skin hot. Broke away, breathless and chest heaving, to slide the shirt off his broad shoulders, revealing those defined muscles, that strength. And imagined, just for a beat, just for a breath, how he’d move over her, against her—buried deep, deep, deep inside her—later. 

The shirt fell to the floor, forgotten. 

No words. Just a twitch of his lips in wry amusement, as if to ask: Like what you see?

She did. She did.

Lucy lifted herself up, arms around his neck, and took a deep, deep breath—that lingering smell of sunscreen that never came quite off, the familiar aftershave and, underneath, him.

Tim’s hand dropped to the small of her back then, holding her pressed against him as he began to move toward the bedroom.

They stumbled a little in the unfamiliar hallway—the darkness not quite absolute despite the lack of moonlight, but heavy enough to blur everything into shadow. 

In the bedroom, Tim let go of her just long enough to turn on the small lamp by the bed. Soft, warm light filled the room. And again, he looked. Trailed his gaze slowly up her body, beginning at her toes. Paused, just briefly, at her thighs and stomach. Lingered, much longer, on her breasts before settling on her face again. 

Lucy tilted her head and smirked—Like what you see?—even though the intensity of his gaze made her skin prickle and feel too tight, the ache between her thighs almost unbearable now. 

She didn’t want to wait any longer. 

His belt opened with a soft clink under her impatient hands, and he twitched at her touch—just once, but enough to send a fresh wave of arousal rolling through her body. 

Another image of what was to come: She was wet, soaked, ready to be claimed by him. He’d slide inside her—stretch her, fill her, open her—so easily. 

Lucy dragged down his pants and boxers—and his erection sprang free, nudging her stomach, the tip wet; hard, aroused, as ready for her as she was for him. 

Tim stepped out of his pants, unhurried despite the raw need in his eyes—and then they tumbled onto the crisp sheets. 

He caught her body with his own—flung his leg over hers, closed his hand around her wrists and tugged her arms up above her head with gentle insistence, his other arm draped over her stomach, fingers almost close enough to dip between her thighs, slide into the slick heat waiting for him there. But only almost.

And then he brought his mouth to her neck, just below her ear—to that spot, the one that drove her wild and made her buck in his grasp. And then lower—to the soft skin of her breasts, kissing her in featherlight, teasing touches before closing his lips around her hardened, sensitive nipple. Hot and wet, his teeth scraping just right, as he licked and sucked, drawing moan after moan from her throat. 

She writhed against him, bringing her own lips to every inch of skin she could reach—the side of his neck, the curve of his shoulder.

And then she slipped her hands free because she wanted, needed, to touch him too. Trailed her fingers through his hair. Curved her palm around his cheek. Made him look at her so that she could kiss him—pressed her mouth against his, just as demanding. His lips parted willingly when she swept her tongue around his mouth to taste him, a low groan deep in his chest.

Until he broke away for air, just enough to take a single, shaky breath, their lips still touching, looking at her again. And the hand on her stomach wandered down, down, fingers dipping between her drenched folds, exploring, before, finally, finally, sliding inside.

Slowly. Unhurried. No teasing tonight. Just long, deep, gentle strokes that sparked pleasure inside her that stole her breath.

His mouth moved down her neck again, ghosted over the curve of her throat. Her skin burned hot, nerve endings firing wildly at the pleasure building within her. Then, just below her collarbone, another rough kiss. Another sharp sting. Another mark.

She clenched around his fingers, once, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping back against the pillow. He curled his fingers gently inside her, hitting her just right—and it pushed her over the edge, suddenly and unexpectedly, pleasure peaking without warning.

A soft whimper made it past her lips before he kissed her again—open-mouthed and deep—still stroking her, still sliding into her slick heat even as she shuddered around him.

When she opened her eyes again, dazed and breathless, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin, she found Tim watching her. Looking. Taking in every reaction of her body—and looking no less wrecked than she felt.

She tapped his hip, a single, fleeting touch. He immediately dropped on his back, his eyes never leaving her as she began to trail her hands down his chest, nails gently scraping his skin. Her gaze dropped low, watching, looking to see what she was doing to him. When she touched the unexpectedly soft skin near the apex of his thighs, he twitched. Once. Hard. And Lucy imagined him twitching inside her like that as he was stretching her. She swallowed, arousal pooling between her legs again.

Glancing up, she saw the ghost of a smirk on Tim’s face: Like what you see?

She definitely did.

She wrapped her hand around his length, her grip firm: hot skin soft as velvet. He groaned, low, his hands reaching for her to have something to hold on to. She stroked him just as gently as he’d stroked her, thumb swirling softly over the tip that was slick with arousal.

And then, because she couldn’t resist, she closed her lips around him: just for a moment, just for a taste. Not enough to push him over the edge, no, because she wanted to feel his hot release pulsing deep inside her later.

Soon.

His hips shifted against the sheets, and he groaned softly, trying to keep himself from bucking up into her mouth. She let him go with a final taste, salty and masculine—and then she rose above him and settled on his thighs.

His hands found her hips, eyes on her face. Watching. Always watching. She dragged his length through her slick folds once, twice and then a third time. Felt him twitch in her grasp when she nudged his tip towards her centre.

Their eyes locked.

And she lowered herself onto him in one single motion: her body opening itself willingly for him, stretching around him until he was buried deep inside her.

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath—that first stretch always almost too deep, too much, too overwhelming.

He curved one hand around her thigh, fingers digging lightly into the soft flesh; the other lay splayed across her stomach, grounding her with that perfect, gentle pressure that made her feel even fuller—like he was everywhere at once.

She lifted herself up, slowly, slowly, wanting to stretch this moment out as long as she could, feeling him drag along that spot. Let gravity pull her down again, her body opening just a little bit more as he sank back inside her—deep and hot and thick and perfect.

And again.

And again.

And again.

His hand drifted up her body. Closed around the soft swell of her breast overflowing in his grasp. His thumb flicked over her peaked nipple, and she moaned softly, letting her head fall back.

And again.

And again.

Hands on his stomach, muscles locked tight under her touch.

And again.

Slowly, slowly, because she needed to feel him there. Sank back down.

And again.

But all of a sudden it was no longer enough, and she needed more. More skin. More of him. Just more. Dropped onto his chest, skin to skin, blindly finding his mouth—not even to kiss him, just to have him. Taste him, feel him, breathe into him. No space. No distance. Needed him everywhere. Trailed her lips over his cheek, across the edge of his jaw, down the side of her neck. Sucked, harder than intended, lost in that need of feeling him.

A surprised gasp, hips bucking up, his grip tightening. And then his hand moved to the back of her head, tangled in her hair, the other on her hip, his touch deliberate—taking control.

Shifted them, slowly, gently, until she lay underneath him, their bodies pressed together, still joined. She felt him twitch inside her and it felt more, she felt more, perfectly full, the angle different now.

For a moment or two, he held himself still above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. Looking, again, but different now, intent in a way that made her breath catch against his lips when he kissed her—as if his world had narrowed to a singular focal point: her.

She lifted her hand, trailing her knuckles over his cheek in a fleeting touch, and his eyes fluttered shut. It struck her, and not for the first time, how very vulnerable he looked—was—in these intimate moments, and what a gift it was that he trusted her with this side of him. That he let her see him slowly fall apart.

She kissed him softly despite her body demanding that she move against him, feel him.

His eyes opened and met hers, lips twitching into a tiny smile against her mouth.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely loud enough to be heard above the rain. But she heard.

And then the air seemed to shift, filled with an electric sense of urgency that set every nerve ending on fire—and he began to move with intense, focused strokes.

It was her turn to look now, and she did, pulse racing and blood boiling. Watched as his body stretched above her, muscles tight and rigid: rocking into her, opening her, just a little bit more, every time he thrust back inside. Mouth on her neck, sometimes her lips, sometimes the curve of her shoulder. Gaze hazy now, breath quick and unsteady, half lost in his own need to feel her around him—and his own need for release.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him inside her—deeper, deeper, deeper—when their hips met, the pressure inside her building and building, her core coiled so tight now it was a deep, primal ache.

She was close, so very close. Almost there. Almost. Dug her fingers into his shoulders, skin sliding against skin. And then a thrust that hit the deepest part of her and tore a strangled cry from her, pleasure on the edge of pain.

Lucy buried her face in Tim’s shoulder, close, close, close, lips on his skin, ankles locked behind his back to guide him against her, barely remembering to breathe until the lack of air made her head start to spin.

Almost there, the pressure inside her unbearable now. Her skin too hot, too tight, his touch, his body stretching her too much—and yet not enough.

Almost—

A strangled gasp as everything inside her shattered, hips lifting to meet his, to feel him fill her completely.

Release.  

Relief.

She moaned and whimpered into his shoulder, struggling to catch her breath. Pleasure swept through her body like a tidal wave—her entire body tightening, clenching around him, hard. Again and again, with unrelenting force, drowning her in sensation. Vaguely aware that Tim was holding on to her, anchoring her, even as his thrusts grew frantic and uneven, driving into her in a reckless, hungry rhythm: chasing his own release.

His head fell into the curve of her neck, breath hot and ragged, face buried in her hair. She thought she heard him whisper something, felt his lips move—but the words got lost in the sound of their bodies colliding. Or maybe she’d imagined it, blood still pounding in her ears—her body raw and cracked open. Too sensitive, everything too much, every nerve ending exposed. And the way he slammed into her now, each thrust edged with sharp pain—just shy of unbearable.

And just when she thought that she couldn’t take any more, her body overwhelmed, still trembling, still caught in the aftershock of her own release, when she began to grasp at him, unable to stay still—his body locked tight, back arching.

A long, long groan against her neck, and he drove into her a final time, hard, so deep she cried out—and then he spilled himself inside her, hot, pulsing, deep, deep, deep.

She ran her hands down his back, slowly, gently, grounding him the same way he’d grounded her while she felt his heart thunder in his chest: thud, thud, thud. She could have picked out the sound anywhere by now—a different kind of intimacy.

Her own high ebbed only slowly, leaving her sated in that delicious, heavy sort of way. Tim lay still on top of her, inside her, his body a comforting weight. But now he shifted with a quiet, content sigh, and fell onto his back beside her, their arms touching. Eyes closed, he reached for her, his hand sliding up her thigh and coming to rest low on her stomach, warm and grounding.

Lucy lay her own hand on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady under her palm, her eyes fluttering shut.

“This felt different,” Tim said after a long, long moment—when his breathing had evened out and the drum of his heart finally slowed, and she thought he’d drifted off to sleep.

She turned, found him studying her, his expression soft and thoughtful.

A smile tugged at her lips. “Good different or bad different?”

He laughed, once, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Just different.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly, smiling, “it did.”

And then she suddenly heard it: the silence outside except for an occasional drip, drip. Water sliding off the palm leaves, maybe, when its weight grew too heavy and they gave.

The rain had stopped.

Chapter Text

IV.1

Last night, once the storm had passed, they’d opened the windows to let in the cool, damp air and that earthy smell of petrichor. Now, sunlight was streaming in, the white curtains swaying gently in the morning breeze, the heat of the last few days finally broken.

Lucy stood in front of the floor-length mirror in a pool of sunlight, untangling her hair, aware that Tim was watching her, looking at her in that new, intense way of his that made it feel like he was under her skin. 

This morning, it felt different though. Everything did. Another sort of different. More settled. Realigned. Like two tectonic plates that had shifted along a fault line one final time, no longer pushing over or under the other but resting still against each other now, the water above calm and undisturbed save for a few gentle ripples. 

The line was still there and always would be. They couldn’t change that. It simply was, but now that it had been acknowledged, shared, it felt easier to accept, the weight of it gone. 

They’d figure it out. 

Tim came up behind her then, meeting her eyes in the mirror. 

“I can do that,” he said, smiling. 

“Your obsession with my hair is beginning to worry me,” Lucy told him, but let her arms drop to her sides, and he chuckled quietly and rolled his eyes.

He was already dressed, in light shorts and a blue linen shirt, while she was still in his old T-shirt she had slept in, the marks he’d left on her body hidden by the worn fabric. 

It had been a while since he’d kissed her like that—rough and demanding and hard enough to mark her skin. Not since before, never after. Like he hadn’t been sure he was allowed, things between them unsettled and different. But he had last night and so had she. Her eyes wandered to the spot on his neck where his skin was bruised, just a little, but clearly visible. And she vividly remembered his faint gasp, the way his fingers had dug into the flesh of her thighs and his hips had bucked up against hers. 

“You’re staring,” he said, with a smirk. 

She lifted her eyebrows at him. “So?”

His hands stilled, still grasping the dark strands of her hair. He met her gaze in the mirror, held it, the look in his blue eyes lighter than it had been in months. Not since before, and sometimes not even then. 

“You weren’t wearing anything under that dress last night.” His fingers brushed over the back of her neck.

A gentle shiver ran down her spine.

“No.” A deliberate look. “I was not.”

A soft tug as he freed a strand of hair and let it fall down her back. “I definitely didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

He saw her smirk in the mirror and laughed. And then, quietly: “I love you.”

And Lucy smiled at him, suddenly feeling warm all over in the best way, her heart fluttering in her chest like a wild thing, just a little. “I love you too.”

IV.2

Outside on the patio, the wind blew more strongly, fresh after last night’s rain, but the air was warm and filled with scents: wet earth, oleander, fresh pains au chocolat and coffee.

The sky was a gentle blue, the colour reminding Tim of a Mark Rothko painting he’d once seen and that, for some reason, had stuck with him. The ocean underneath lay calm this morning except for a few gentle waves.

“I’m going to miss this.”

Lucy sat back against his chest. She was wearing a yellow sundress that left her shoulders bare, tan and a little sun-burned. He kissed the mark he’d left last night, a featherlight touch, and her grip on his arm that lay curved around her stomach tightened.

“We can always come back someday,” he said quietly.

She turned in his embrace, a soft smile on her face that made something in him pull tight. To be looked at like that, full of love—that was a gift he’d forever be grateful for.

“I’d like that.”

They sat in silence—the easy kind. Light. Comfortable. The silence of two people who knew each other, understood each other on a level so deep that they needed no words. At least, in some things.

Talking about about feelings still didn’t come easy. But talking to her always had—except for when it had mattered most, and it had almost cost him everything.

So, he was glad—just a little and maybe selfishly so—that Lucy seemed to find it equally hard now. That they’d both carried around this uncertainty of what they were now instead of just talking about it. That this was something they could work on together as they embarked on this journey.

Tim didn’t just want to live with her. He wanted a whole life with her.

And it was then, in this moment—the silence around them easy and soft—that he allowed that tentative thought for the first time, where before he’d always pushed it away. Because he could see it now, this future he wanted. Not now, maybe, not right this moment, but some day. Soon.

I want to marry her.

IV.3

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky. 

Lucy slipped back into her sundress, skin still wet from her swim, and undid her braid.

The moment her hair fell loose, Tim reached for it like he just couldn’t help himself. 

“You really are obsessed,” she chuckled. 

“You didn’t mind my obsession this afternoon.” 

“No,” she whispered, remembering the way he’d laced his fingers into her hair to tilt her head back while she moved on him, the sun hot on her back. “No, I didn’t.”

She stepped away from him out into the surf, the water swirling around her feet, calm and cool. Again, he followed. 

“You know,” she said, and lightly tapped his arm, “technically, you are in the ocean right now.”

Tim huffed, and she didn’t need to look at him to know that he was rolling his eyes. 

“Wet feet don’t count.”

She laughed. 

The sound was carried off by the wind and, quietly, echoed in the distance: children’s laughter, joyful and carefree. 

They’d walked by earlier, a family of four, and now they were coming back towards them. The older child kicked up sand, laughing when it was picked up by the wind and scattered. 

The younger child kept making a run for the surf, the dad sprinting after her to catch her. She laughed, and the moment she set her down, she immediately dashed off again. 

This could be us.

The thought was there, suddenly. It wasn’t the first time she’d had similar thoughts, but the first time she allowed it to unfold in her mind—and herself to see it.

And it was easy to imagine: their child dashing into the surf, and Tim running after her to catch her and then swing her through the air—easily, safely—until her little body was shaking with laughter. 

Warmth spread through her at the idea, at that potential of what could be. Of what they could be. Not now, maybe, not right this moment.

But some day. Soon. 

Her hand slid into Tim’s, held it tight. 

“What?”

Lucy smiled up at him. 

“Nothing. Just… thinking.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, and looked ahead, at that family: maybe thinking the same thing.