Page 78 of When Death Whispers

She pauses, her brows knitting together. Something shifts behind her eyes.

Then her head snaps up, her voice soft but urgent. “Hudson… the dream. The one where I—where we…”

She can’t say it. But I already know.

My heart kicks into overdrive as I wait for her to continue.

Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Did you have it too?”

I hold still. Barely breathing.

“Yes,” I say. “I thought it was just… a fantasy. Something my brain conjured up because I wanted it so badly. But it felt real.Youfelt real.”

Her eyes shine, wide and searching, vulnerable in a way I don’t think she even realizes.

“I remember everything,” she says. “The way you looked at me. The way you touched me. I remember begging for it. Begging for you. And I remember thinking... if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.”

My chest tightens.

Because that’s exactly what I thought, too.

I step toward her, drawn like I always am, like she’s gravity and I’m too tired to pretend I’m not falling anymore. I reach out, slow and careful, giving her time to flinch, to step back, to put those walls up again.

She doesn’t.

I brush a strand of silver hair from her cheek, and she leans into it without thinking—like it’s instinct, familiar. Like she’s been waiting for something gentle.

“I’m still here,” I whisper, barely trusting my voice. “If you want me. I know it’s complicated. I know it’s dark and messy and terrifying. But I’m not running. Not again.”

Her breath shudders. Her eyes close, lashes trembling. And when they open again, there’s no fire in them—just that same vulnerability I saw in the shower. That same ache.

And then—she steps into me.

No hesitation. No demand. Just… need.

Her hands slide up my chest, not to pull, not to control—but to anchor. When her lips touch mine, it’s not desperate—it’s deliberate. Slow. Searching. Like she’s trying to memorize the feeling of something gentle. Something that doesn’t take.

I kiss her back with everything I have, not to claim her, not to erase what’s happened—but to remind her: she still belongs to herself. That not everything that touches her has to hurt.

My hands find her waist, not gripping, just holding. She feels so small in my arms, and I don’t know how she’s still standing. But she is. Somehow, she is.

She pulls back a little, her forehead resting against mine. Her breathing is unsteady, her fingers trembling slightly where they curl in the fabric of my shirt.

“I’m not okay,” she whispers. “But I want this. I want you.”

“I know,” I murmur. “And I’m not here to fix it. I’m just here. For you.”

She nods. Just once.

We move together without words after that, a silent understanding sparking where there was once hesitation. Her fingers curl around the hem of my shirt, a steady insistence in their grip. I let her tug it up, helping her pull it free. The fabric is barely gone before her hands move to me, trailing slowly across my chest. There’s no teasing in her touch. Just a need to feel something solid under her fingertips, to ground herself.

My lips find her shoulder, her collarbone, her throat, the need to finally worship that pale skin too much to resist. The kisses are soft. Slow. Reverent.

I slowly pull her sports bra over her head, groaning when her tits bounce free.

God, she’s perfect.

I help her with her shorts next, sliding them down her legs. She steps out of them, standing before me in nothing but a pair of black lace panties. The contrast against her snow white skin makes my breath catch in my throat.

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