Page 140 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
“I know.”
“But I need you.” The admission tears from his throat. “I need to know we still exist when it’s just us.”
“Then let’s find out.”
I take his hand, lead him toward the bedroom—Hank’s room. Each step feels monumental, like we’re climbing toward either salvation or destruction and won’t know which until we reach the top.
The bedroom door stands open, revealing the California king that seemed perfectly sized for three and now yawns empty as a canyon. Gabe stops in the doorway, staring at that empty space.
“We don’t have to do this in here,” I say.
“Yes, we do.” His voice carries newfound resolve. “If we’re going to do this, we do it here. In our space. All of ours.”
He’s right. Running to another room won’t change anything. The ghost of what we were will follow us wherever we go. Betterto face it head-on, to claim this space for what we’re becoming instead of what we’ve lost.
Afternoon light filters through the windows, casting everything in golden tones that should be romantic but feel melancholy instead. We stand beside the bed, suddenly awkward as teenagers, unsure how to begin something we’ve done a hundred times before.
“I don’t remember how to do this,” I admit.
“The mechanics are the same.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” He reaches for the hem of my shirt, then stops. “Can I?”
The formality of the question breaks my heart a little. When did we become strangers asking permission for touches that used to be as natural as breathing?
I nod, and he lifts my shirt over my head. His eyes track over skin he’s kissed and marked and worshipped, but now they hold uncertainty alongside desire.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, as if he’s just remembering.
“Touch me.”
His hands settle on my waist, thumbs tracing the curve of my ribs. Familiar territory mapped by fingers that know every sensitive spot, every place that makes me gasp. But something’s missing—the easy confidence that came from being part of a unit that knew exactly how to drive me to the edge of sanity.
I reach for his shirt, pull it over his head to reveal the body I’ve explored countless times. Scars I’ve kissed, muscles I’ve gripped, skin I’ve marked with my nails. Still beautiful. Still mine. But somehow foreign now that half our dynamic is gone.
We undress each other slowly, carefully, like we’re handling something fragile that might shatter if we move too fast. When we’re finally naked, standing beside the bed where we’ve made love hundreds of times, the silence feels heavier than before.
“This is weird,” he says finally.
“Really weird.”
We ease down onto the edge of the bed, but even that feels too loaded. Like we’re trespassing in a memory.
Gabe lies back first. I follow, but instead of straddling him, I curl into his side, resting my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat stutters under my ear, not from arousal, but uncertainty.
Loss.
This isn’t lust humming between us—it’s the echo of something we’re both afraid we’ve lost for good.
His fingers drift up my spine, trembling slightly. I press my mouth to the spot beneath his collarbone, where I once left teeth marks in a moment of passion.
Now my lips linger there, not from desire—but searching. Waiting for something to feel right.
It doesn’t.
His breath catches—not in pleasure. In hesitation. His palm stills on my skin.
