He leaned away, his back hitting the couch, his lungs burning for air. The room felt too hot, her laugh still echoing in his ears, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, to steady himself. But then the couch dipped, and she was there, swinging a leg over his hips, her hands pressing into his chest to keep him from moving farther.
“Breathe later,” she said, her voice low, and he opened his eyes to find her inches from his face, her gaze sharp with a hunger that matched his own. This wasn’t gentle. It was urgent—the kind of urgency that makes you forget to inhale, that turns every breath into a luxury. He tried to shift, to create space, but she leaned in, her hips rolling against his, and his protest died in his throat.
She knew. Knew he was trying to slow things down, to think, to pretend he wasn’t unraveling. But straddling him like this—firm, unyielding, her body a perfect barrier between him and the calm he craved—was her way of saying don’t run. When he finally stopped fighting, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer, she smiled. Some breaths are worth holding.