Page 113 of Veil of Smoke

Rain taps gentle against the skylight, a steady rhythm that feels like a fresh start. I carry two unlit candles, wax smooth in my hands, and set them on a crate.

I strike a match, the sound sharp, and light them slow, flames blooming one by one. Viviana moves to the windowsill, her fingers brushing its dusty ridge.

“I like this place,” she says, voice low, certain. “Feels like something could grow here.”

I step closer, my boots scuffing the floorboards. Her words land deep, stirring something quiet and real in me.

I take her hand, her skin cool and damp, mine rough from the match’s heat. “It already is,” I say, meaning it, my voice steady.

She turns to me, green eyes catching the candlelight, unguarded and clear. No rush pushes us forward, just this moment, heavy with presence.

My fingers find her shirt, damp fabric clinging to her frame. I unbutton it slow, knuckles grazing her ribs, her breath catching soft under my touch.

She’s a map of survival, every line a story we’ve lived. I peel the shirt back, letting it drop, her skin bared to the warm glow.

Her hands tug at my jacket, steady and sure, sliding it off my shoulders. It falls heavy, rain-soaked, and she starts on my shirt next.

She doesn’t hurry, just unbuttons it, her fingers brushing my chest, unveiling me piece by piece. I feel the air hit my skin, cool and alive.

My shirt joins hers on the floor, and I reach for her pants, easing them down. She steps free, standing bare, her presence filling the room.

I kick off my boots, shed my jeans, the denim crumpling beside us. We’re stripped down now, no armor left, just flesh and memory.

She traces my arm, her touch light over the faded stitches, and I feel her warmth seep in, grounding me here, now.

I guide her to the mattress, hands on her hips, my grip firm but gentle. She sits, then leans back, and I follow, easing her down.

The blanket shifts beneath us, coarse but familiar, and I settle beside her, my hand resting on her side, feeling her breathe.

“You’re not who you were when we met,” she says, her voice cutting the quiet, clear and true.

I meet her gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears, bright with something new. “No,” I say, my fingers tracing her skin. “I buried him beside Massimo.”

She smiles, small and honest, the candlelight glinting off her damp lashes. “Then let’s grow someone else,” she says, her voice a soft promise.

The jazz notes hum faint below, a thread of sound weaving through the loft. I feel her words take root, steady and sure.

Her hand brushes my chest, resting there, and I cover it with mine, pressing it close. The rain taps above, a rhythm that matches us.

I shift closer on the mattress, my hand tracing Viviana’s side, her skin warm under my palm. Her breath brushes my neck, steady and close. I lean in, my lips finding hers, tasting rain and her, a slow kiss that lingers.

She kisses back, her hands sliding up my chest, fingers splaying wide. We move together, no hurry, just hands exploring, mouths tasting, a rhythm that builds quiet.

I pull back, my forehead pressing hers, our breaths mingling warm. Her eyes hold mine, green and deep, and I feel her, real, here.

She shifts, her hand finding the burn on my shoulder, puckered skin from a Molotov’s kiss. Her lips press there, soft and deliberate, a promise sealed against me.

I exhale, her touch grounding me, and I slide my hand down her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the strength beneath her warmth.

She moves with me, her leg hooking over mine, our bodies aligning natural, easy. I kiss her throat, tasting the faint salt on her skin, and she tilts her head, giving me more. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging light, guiding me.

She’s not fire now. She’s earth. She’s rain. She’s the soil I never thought I deserved. The thought rises unbidden, steady and true.

I shift, rolling her beneath me, my hands framing her hips. She looks up, eyes bright in the candlelight, and I feel her trust, a gift I’ll never take for granted.

Her hands roam my back, tracing old scars, her touch gentle but sure. I lean down, kissing her chest, my lips brushing the faint mark above her heart.

She pulls me closer, her breath hitching, and whispers, “Stay.” It’s not fear in her voice, not need, just her choosing me, clear and real.

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