Page 95 of Storm of Stars
I nodded, my body sinking into the mattress beside hers. “Yeah,” I whispered. My voice felt raw. “It’s been a week, Briar.”
“I know,” she said, stroking my cheek with a featherlight touch that somehow held me together.
“What if they’re not okay?” I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them. I hated giving shape to that fear. Hated how it lived in the corners of my mind, just waiting to come to the light.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she traced the edge of my jaw with her fingertip, letting the quiet settle.
Finally, she spoke. “I have to believe they’re okay,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “I can’t imagine we fought our way through everything… just to lose them now.”
I nodded, because I felt the same. Because if I didn’t hold onto that belief, I would unravel.
She slid her hand over my heart, her palm flat and warm against my chest. “Do you feel them here?” she asked.
I closed my eyes, breathing into her touch. And I did. Always had. As if somewhere, deep inside me, invisible threads still tied us together.
“I do,” I said.
“Then they’re okay,” she said, with a certainty I didn’t have but wanted so desperately to borrow. “You’d know if they weren’t. You’d feel the absence.”
I swallowed hard, letting the silence settle again. Letting her belief wrap around me like a blanket.
“I want to believe that,” I whispered.
She kissed the space just above my heart and rested her head against my shoulder. “Then hold onto it. Just a little longer.”
We stayed curled together in the hush of the morning, our bodies twined, our breaths falling into rhythm like the quietest song. The soft orange light of dawn filtered in through the window, casting long golden stripes across the bed, warming ourskin in patches. Time seemed to slow, just for us, in the stillness of that early hour.
“I love you, Briar,” I whispered, my voice low, reverent.
She turned her head, her sleepy eyes finding mine, and I leaned in to kiss her. Her lips were warm and familiar, home. I lingered there, then pulled away just enough to speak again. “I have something for you,” I said, the words brushing against her mouth.
Her brows lifted slightly in curiosity as I slipped out from beneath the covers, the chill of the air stark compared to the warmth we’d just shared. I padded across the floor and opened the closet, heart thudding a little faster. It had taken days to make it back to the cabin where we’d hidden during the Run. By some miracle, it had remained mostly untouched, one small pocket of peace spared from the chaos.
I reached inside and gently took hold of the neck of the guitar. My fingers curled around the worn wood, familiar and solid. I turned, cradling it like something sacred as I walked back toward her.
Briar had sat up, the sheets falling loose around her hips. Her bare shoulders caught the sunlight, and her hair spilled over her back like a curtain of ink. When she saw what I held, her lips parted in a soft gasp.
“You went and got the guitar?” she breathed, her voice trembling slightly as her eyes shimmered with sudden tears.
“Of course I did,” I said, kneeling before her. “I couldn’t bear the thought of a world without your music. I hope I never have to go a single day without hearing your voice again.”
Her eyes met mine, wide and shining with so much love it almost undid me. She took the guitar from my hands with a tenderness so beautiful. She traced her fingers over the curves of the wood like she was memorizing it all over again, then carefully set it beside her on the bed.
Without a word, she reached for me, tugging gently until I climbed into her lap, straddling her. Her arms circled my waist and she tucked her face against my chest like she was trying to crawl into my heartbeat. I held her close, one hand stroking through the silky waves of her hair, the other curled around her back, anchoring us in this moment.
She tilted her head up slightly, her lips brushing my skin. “Your heartbeat,” she whispered, “it’s like the steady beat to my favorite song.”
Then our lips met. And this kiss was anything but lazy. There was a fire behind it. A passion. A song. I wanted to sing with her forever.
She guided my body like it was an instrument she knew by heart, her hands firm on my hips, gathering the fabric of my nightdress until it was bunched around my waist. Slowly, deliberately, she drew my body closer to hers until I felt the warmth of her press against mine.
A gasp slipped from my lips as I sank into the rhythm she set, my core brushing against hers. “Briar…,” I sighed, voice shaking as it fell into the space between us.
Her grip tightened, and she pulled me closer still, brushing her nose along my jaw as she spoke, breathless and low. “That’s it, beautiful,” she murmured, voice like velvet. “Just like that.”
Each word ignited a spark deep within, every shift of her hands a reminder that she knew every part of me, where to guide, where to tease, how to draw out the ache until it shimmered between us. At that moment, nothing else existed. Not the world beyond these walls, not the weight we’d been carrying. Just this — her hands, her voice, and the slow, consuming song.
“Come for me,” she demanded in a soft, delicious whisper. Her fingers dug into my hips as we picked up the pace, ourbodies chasing the euphoric friction. I bucked against her with wild abandon, her pupils were blown as her own climax crested.
