CW: wc… 5.4k - fallen angel reader x caitlyn kiramman, plot with some smut, caitlyn eating you out, religion (obviously), hurt/comfort, based on this request
SUMMARY: Fallen from grace, you are found broken and bleeding in Caitlyn’s garden. She takes you in, tending to your wounds with reverence, even as you reject her mortal kindness. You long for heaven—for the gates that have shut you out—but Caitlyn is relentless. She shows you the beauty of the world below, the softness of human hands, and the warmth of a love that does not demand divinity. Slowly, you let her in. And when she worships you—not as an angel, but as a woman—you find yourself reaching not for the sky, but for her. In the end, heaven no longer feels so far away.
The night is brittle with frost, and the gardens of Caitlyn Kiramman’s estate slumber beneath a veil of moonlight. The roses, once proud and sharp with scent, bow to the cold, their petals sagging beneath the weight of frozen dew. The wind slips through the iron railings, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the hedges, but it is soured by something heavier—something bitter.
Beyond the manicured rows and trimmed laurels, in the northern patch where wildflowers disobey the gardener’s hand, something stirs. The brush is damp with mist, thorned branches heavy with rain. The ground, muddied by the day’s storm, clings to something that shouldn’t be there.
A body—ashen, bloodied, and trembling—lies crumpled in the grass. Wings, torn at the edges, barely cling to the figure’s back. Feathers, once ethereal and whole, spill loosely into the dirt. Pale gold stained with rain and iron. Some catch in the brambles, others float in the waterlogged soil. The ground drinks the blood in shallow rivulets, red seeping through the weeds.
You are still. Your breath barely ghosts through parted lips. The remnants of grace flicker faintly, a halo’s dying ember, quickly fading to nothing. The earth is unkind to you—it holds you down, its weight foreign and cruel. The flowers bend beneath your ruin.
Caitlyn finds you there, a slumped figure in the moon-drenched overgrowth. Her boots scuff the edge of the stone path as she draws near, her lantern’s glow catching on broken feathers. She pauses, breath halting in her throat, eyes narrowing at the sight.
For a heartbeat, she thinks you are already dead.
But then you shudder—a broken gasp—barely more than a breath.
She drops to her knees, hands unthinking, ungloved. Her fingers press into the dirt as she reaches for you. She brushes strands of rain-soaked hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple by mistake. You flinch faintly beneath her touch, but you are too weak to recoil.
Her hands press against torn flesh, and she feels it—the heat of blood thick on her palms, seeping through her fingers. Her throat tightens. She does not pull away. Instead, she moves quickly. Her arms slip beneath your broken form. She is trembling as she lifts you, as though afraid you might fracture further in her hold.
You weigh almost nothing.
A celestial ruin, cradled by mortal hands.
Her boots sink slightly in the sodden earth as she carries you toward the house. The lantern swings at her side, its flame barely holding against the wind. She does not stop to wipe the blood from her hands. She does not pause when her breath catches. She holds you closer, desperate and steady.
The night is heavy with iron and roses. The ground where you fell is quiet again, nothing but damp earth and broken feathers left behind.
And you, trembling and wingless, are carried into the dark.
You wake beneath silk sheets, cool and unfamiliar against your skin. The fabric clings slightly to the fever-slick sheen still clinging to your body. The bed is wide and soft, too soft, as though meant to hold someone fragile. Pillows of down frame your head, and the faint scent of lavender water drifts from a porcelain basin on the nightstand.
You shift, but your body protests. Dull aches bloom beneath your ribs and along the plane of your back. Bandages cross your chest in careful lines, soft and taut, but you feel no reverence for them. No gratitude. They feel foreign—holy remnants wrapped around something no longer sacred.
You push yourself up with trembling arms, but the weight on your back drags you down. Your wings—stiff, broken, and molting—lie heavy and useless against the mattress. Their edges are frayed, the feathers matted and torn, dull where they once gleamed. You attempt to move them, and a sharp pain lances through your shoulder blades, the muscles spasming. They twitch weakly, pathetic in their ruin.
You grit your teeth. You do not cry.
Instead, you rise.
The sheets slip from your frame as you stagger from the bed, breathless and aching. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you, joints stiff from too many still hours. You reach out, catching the edge of a carved mahogany table, your knuckles white around the wood. Your bare feet press into the polished floor, slick with the sheen of cold sweat, but you do not stop.
Your eyes catch the window. The curtains—thin and gossamer—stir faintly in the morning breeze, the fabric limned with pale gold light. You move toward it, shoulders tight with defiance.
Your knees hit the sill before you realize they’ve buckled. Your hands press to the glass—damp from your trembling palms—as you stare upward. Toward the sky.
The clouds drift slow and indifferent. There is no hand reaching down for you. No warm light. Only the cold sun and the dull ache in your bones.
Your lips part, and you begin to pray.
Your voice is cracked and raw, barely more than a whisper. You murmur psalms Caitlyn has never heard, verses in tongues no mortal tongue could shape. Your voice frays against the edges of the words, quiet and fractured. You clutch your trembling hands together, knuckles white with devotion, fingers curling tight in desperate reverence.
“Sanctus. Sanctus. Domine Deus Sabaoth…”
Your voice falters.
You breathe and try again.
“Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua…”
You chant, broken and breathless, waiting for heaven’s reply.
But no light answers you.
The sky remains pale and still.
A soft sound stirs from the doorway.
You don’t turn.
Caitlyn stands there, silent in the morning light. She leans against the frame, her arms loosely crossed, but there is no steel in her stance. Only a quiet, folding tenderness. Her eyes soften when they fall on you—on your trembling hands and your lips moving soundlessly against the windowpane.
You don’t see how she lingers. How she holds her breath every time your voice wavers. How she exhales slowly when you do not fall apart.
You do not see her carry the weight for you.
But you feel it.
And you refuse it.
She steps forward after a moment, voice careful.
“Come back to bed,” she says softly. “You’re still weak.”
You flinch slightly at the sound, as though the mortal words disturb the fragile thread holding your prayers together. You do not look at her.
Your voice rasps against the glass.
“Leave me.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she moves closer, footsteps light against the polished floor. She sets a tray on the table beside you—a modest meal of broth and bread. It smells warm, faintly savory. She brought it to be kind. To care.
Her voice is gentler this time, but firmer.
“You should eat.”
You stare through her.
You press your palms harder against the window, fingers trembling faintly.
When you do not respond, she steps closer still, her fingers skimming the edge of your ruined wing. You tense at the touch, your breath hitching, the sensation both familiar and deeply, terribly wrong. She means it to be gentle, but you recoil as though burned. You twist away from her, arms closing over your chest.
Your voice is a low rasp, cracked from disuse.
“Don’t.”
Her hands drop to her sides immediately. She doesn’t reach for you again.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, stretching too long, filled with the thin space between you. You breathe heavily, staring down at your shaking hands.
Caitlyn exhales softly.
She turns back toward the table, removing the lid from the small pot of salve beside the tray. The scent of mint and chamomile drifts faintly from it. She dips her fingers in, rubbing the ointment between her hands, warming it.
“Your wounds…” she says, carefully measured, “…they’ll heal faster if you let me help.”
You do not move.
You do not answer.
You fix your eyes on the sky, on the fragments of light filtering through the glass, and you try to imagine it is heaven looking back.
She kneels beside you. Her voice, when it comes again, is softer.
“Please.”
You do not thank her.
You do not accept her salves.
You do not touch the food she brings you.
She speaks of the city—the warmth of summer markets, the idle laughter of children playing by the fountain, the scent of spiced bread in the lower quarters. She tries to conjure life in her voice, to breathe warmth into it. She tells you about the festival that will arrive soon, the colors that will drape the streets. She smiles softly, trying to make you imagine it, to see it through her eyes.
You stare through her.
Your eyes remain on heaven, indifferent to the hands that save you.
𝕴𝕴𝕴.Soft Chains, Soft Hands
Days stretch into weeks. Time becomes a dull and heavy thing—measured only by the slow mending of your mortal flesh and the steady, inevitable wilting of the divine in you.
Your body recovers. Your limbs strengthen, and the bruises fade from your skin. But your wings—once celestial, once a thing of glory—dull from silk to dust. The feathers, once radiant and fine, shed in brittle clumps. They fall in uneven patches, leaving bare spaces along your spine. You no longer feel the tug of the sky when the wind drifts through the open windows. Gravity has claimed you fully.
You no longer speak Caitlyn’s name.
You do not even look at her when she enters the room.
You only call for your Father, for the gates, for the light.
When you wake, you whisper prayers to a heaven that does not answer.
When you sleep, you see it slipping further away.
You become a relic of your own punishment.
Trying to claw your way back to paradise with trembling hands.
But Caitlyn—relentless in her devotion—stays.
She does not move like a martyr, nor a fool, but with a tenderness so steady it threatens to break you.
She brings you clothes softer than the robes of your choir, carefully folded and left at the edge of your bed. She brushes the ends of your matted hair, fingers slow and patient, working through the knots with infinite care. She never pulls too hard. When her fingertips catch against a tangle, she stops, smooths it out, and continues with quiet reverence.
She kneels beside you when your legs buckle from the pain of phantom flight.
When the ache beneath your shoulder blades becomes too much—when your ruined wings spasm uselessly, still searching for the currents they’ll never find again—she is there.
She offers her arms without hesitation.
And you do not reject them.
You let yourself lean into her touch, trembling but stubborn, without a word.
She never asks why you do not speak. She never asks why you flinch when she presses warm cloths to your back, or why you turn your face away when she calls you by name. She simply stays.
And in the quiet moments, you begin to break.
One night, you dream of fire.
It does not begin with flame. It begins with wind. With the sudden and terrible absence of light—the cold snuffing out of warmth and grace. You see the sky rupture, clouds folding inward. The stars retreat as your wings fold downward in unholy descent.
You dream of the fall.
Of gravity claiming you in a sickening pull.
Of the divine spilling from your veins in molten ribbons.
Of your feathers blackening mid-flight, blistered by some unseen judgment.
Of sin blistering your skin as you plummet.
Your own screams tear through your throat like ash.
You strike the earth with shattering force, your grace torn from you.
You hit the ground in a broken heap, lightless.
And then—
Nothing.
You wake violently, gasping for air, the sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat clings to your skin, a thin sheen of cold across your neck. Your hands claw at the blanket, seeking purchase against something, anything—
But you cannot breathe.
The fire is still in your throat.
You swear you can taste the ash.
You startle at the voice.
Hands—warm and steady—close over your arms.
You do not recognize them at first. You are still in the fire, still in the ruin. You thrash against the hold, your chest tight and heaving, the phantom of gravity still clutching at your lungs.
“Shh, you’re safe. You’re safe.”
Her voice cuts through the haze, low and trembling but steady, and you come back to the room by fragments—the silk sheets damp with sweat, the moonlight trembling against the window, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.
And her hands.
Her hands, anchoring you.
“Breathe,” Caitlyn says softly. “Just breathe.”
Her thumbs stroke slow, tender circles along the inside of your wrists. Her voice—rough from sleep—carries the faintest tremor. You feel the ghost of it on your skin.
You shudder in her hold.
Your hands, still shaking, curl weakly into the fabric of her nightshirt. You feel the tremor in your fingers even as you grip her, even as you press your forehead into her collarbone.
You feel her breath catch sharply when you do.
But she does not pull away.
“Did you dream of it?” she asks quietly.
You do not answer.
Your throat is too raw, too tight, to speak.
But she doesn’t need you to.
She shifts slightly, pulling you further against her. You feel the strength in her arms, the solid press of her palm against the back of your head. She holds you as though you might fly apart, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt, gentle but unyielding.
Her breath ghosts over your temple, uneven and warm.
“You’re here,” she murmurs softly. “You’re alright.”
You are not alright.
You are anything but.
But she repeats the words like a prayer, low and steady, as though willing them into truth.
Her fingers stroke softly along the sharp ridges of your shoulder blades, where your ruined wings twitch faintly beneath her touch. She is careful. Reverent. The weight of her hand warm against the place where your divinity once rested.
And though you will not admit it, you lean into her.
Your hands remain fisted in the fabric of her shirt, knuckles white and trembling. Your forehead stays pressed against her throat, your lips parted, pulling shallow, uneven breaths.
You feel the warmth of her arms encircling you completely, the faint press of her lips at your temple—so light, you might have imagined it.
You breathe against her skin.
And you do not pull away.
For the first time since the fall, you do not dream of fire.
And she does not let you go.
Caitlyn begins bringing you out into the gardens—the very place where you fell.
The place where the earth first cradled your broken body, where the grass still remembers your blood.
You resist at first, your legs still weak from disuse, your steps faltering as though your body does not recognize gravity’s grip. She stands beside you, patient, always within reach but never touching.
The morning air clings cool to your skin. The scent of damp earth rises beneath your feet. You walk side by side, though you never brush against her. Your hands remain clasped behind your back, fingers lightly interlaced, as if in silent prayer. As if holding your holiness like a barrier between you.
You always keep one step ahead.
And Caitlyn lets you.
But her eyes linger.
She watches you. Always.
She watches the way you tilt your face toward the sun, as though waiting for it to split open the clouds and carry you back to grace. The way your eyes flutter closed, desperate for warmth that no longer recognizes you.
She watches your lips form prayers that never rise.
She watches your knuckles tighten when you clutch at your own hands, as though trying to hold yourself together.
She watches you fall apart.
She speaks of life.
Of mortality.
Of things that bloom in the dirt and not in the clouds.
“Look,” she says softly one morning, gesturing toward a cluster of wild roses growing unruly along the garden wall. Their petals are pale gold, blushing faintly at the edges, heavy with dew. Some have begun to wilt at the tips. Bruised by the cold. Imperfect.
“They’ll be gone by next week,” Caitlyn muses, crouching beside them, brushing her fingertips over a drooping stem. She glances at you over her shoulder, lips pulling into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
You look at her, disbelieving.
“It’s dying.”
Her smile does not falter.
She plucks the bloom from its branch and holds it out to you.
Her voice is quiet, steady.
“And still beautiful.”
You do not take the flower.
You turn from her, from the roses, from the dying beauty she speaks of, and walk away.
She does not stop you.
But when she finds you the next morning—hunched by the fountain, your fingers trembling over your beads of prayer—she kneels beside you without a word. She does not speak of flowers that wilt or the beauty of decay.
She only presses a shawl around your trembling shoulders, her fingers warm against your skin.
And you let her.
When she realizes the garden cannot reach you, she tries the city.
You refuse the first time she asks.
And the second.
And the third.
But she is stubborn.
And when she stands before you that morning, her eyes suddenly soft but unbearably earnest, her voice quiet but breaking faintly at the edges—you cannot deny her.
“Please,” she says softly.
There is no command in her voice. No persuasion.
Only a quiet, fractured plea.
The city is a tangle of warmth and dust.
Stone and iron. Smoke and spice.
It is nothing like heaven.
And yet, she keeps showing it to you.
As though it might be.
She takes you to the market first. You walk beside her, your posture rigid, unsure. The crowd swells around you, voices low and rough, unrefined. Mortal laughter clatters against stone walls, uncontained and imperfect.
You do not understand the appeal of it.
But Caitlyn does.
She stops by a fruit stand.
The merchant hands her a sliver of honeyed pear on the edge of a dull knife.
She turns, holding it out to you, eyes glinting with unrestrained delight.
“Try it,” she says simply, her voice lighter now, teasing at the edges.
You stare at the sliver of fruit, brow faintly drawn.
“I don’t need it.”
Her smile tilts, coy and knowing.
“No. But you might want it.”
You glance at her. The sun catches in her hair, turns it to dark silk, makes the blue in her eyes burn a little brighter.
And against your better judgment, you take it.
You place the sliver of pear against your tongue, slow and uncertain, and the taste—syrupy sweet, clinging to the roof of your mouth—shocks you with its richness.
Her eyes flicker with satisfaction.
But she says nothing.
She only hands you another.
In the following days, she shows you more of the city.
She lets you walk behind her at first, always allowing you the space you demand, though her hand lingers close enough to catch yours.
She buys you books filled with mortal poetry—thin volumes with gilded edges and worn spines. She leaves them by your bedside. You tell yourself you will not touch them.
But you do.
You read them before you sleep.
You read about broken hearts and fleeting beauty and stars that live and die in the same breath.
You read about a world meant to end and bloom again in the ashes.
And when she finds you on the veranda one evening, book still open on your lap, you scowl at her.
She only smiles.
The slightest tilt of her head.
Like she knew you would.
One evening, the wind is sharp with the promise of rain. You shiver slightly when it drags its cold fingers along your skin. You do not complain. You would not dare.
And yet, without a word, Caitlyn unwinds the scarf from her own neck and drapes it around your shoulders.
Her knuckles brush against your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before they retreat.
The scarf is warm with her scent.
You clutch it closer without meaning to.
And you despise yourself for it.
You watch her as she glances away, her eyes settling on the rows of lanterns swaying softly in the evening breeze.
You do not see the smile she hides.
You still pray.
Still beg for the gates.
Still clutch at your beads with trembling hands.
But she cannot bear it.
Cannot bear the way you gaze at the sky with longing eyes, waiting for the light that will not come.
She watches you ache for a heaven that has already closed its gates.
And so, she decides.
If you will not stay for the world,
She will become your reason.
She will make herself your Eden.
And she will be merciless in her devotion.
It happens without warning.
The sky offers no omen—only emptiness.
Ink-black and void of answers.
The stars are sharp, pale shards scattered across the heavens, and yet they do not hear you.
No light answers when you beg.
No voice calls your name.
You collapse to your knees in the dirt where Caitlyn once found you.
Where you first became something unholy.
The cold earth clings to your skin, biting against your bones.
But you do not rise.
You only bow lower.
You press your trembling hands together, knuckles white with desperation.
Your voice rasps against the stillness, cracking with every breath.
“Domine, adiuva me.”
Lord, help me.
But the words feel like ash on your tongue.
Dry and dead.
Familiar and useless.
You clutch at your beads, fingers unsteady, the rosary trembling in your grip.
You pray again, louder this time.
“Domine, ne derelinquas me.”
Lord, do not forsake me.
But there is no answer.
There never is.
You feel your throat tighten. Your eyes burn with the betrayal of salt.
And you shatter.
Into something less than divine.
Something broken.
Something mortal.
Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat when she sees you—the fierce, unyielding creature who once spoke of salvation with such reverence—now trembling in the dirt, splintered by absence.
“Hey,” she calls softly, her voice barely a whisper.
But you do not lift your head.
You do not answer.
You only press your forehead deeper into the soil, as though the earth might swallow you whole.
As though you wish it would.
“Please.”
Her voice is closer now, low and unsteady.
The smallest fracture in her tone makes your spine stiffen.
You feel her hands on your arms—gentle at first, uncertain.
Fingers hesitant against your skin.
But when you refuse to rise, when you resist her, she grows bolder.
“Stop—”
You twist away from her, your nails biting into your palms.
But she is stronger.
Her arms circle around you, unyielding.
And this time, she holds you.
“Stay,” she murmurs, her voice breaking.
She buries her face against your neck, her breath uneven, trembling.
“Stay. Please.”
Her lips are too close.
Her words too human.
Too pleading.
You feel her desperation in the way her arms tighten around you, anchoring you to her.
You feel her voice quake against your skin.
And you break.
Utterly.
Completely.
First in sobs, sharp and breathless.
Then in silence, your body trembling in her arms.
And finally—finally—in her mouth.
You do not know who moves first.
Only that your lips find hers, seeking with the violence of sorrow.
A collision of trembling mouths and sharp breaths.
Her lips—warm, mortal—burn against your trembling mouth.
You taste the salt of your own grief on her tongue.
And she tastes the sorrow on yours.
Your hands, still shaking, rise to her face, fingertips unsure.
But she holds them there—keeps them against her cheeks with her own trembling hands.
Grounding you.
She murmurs against your lips—desperate, reverent, wild.
“Stay with me.”
The words press against your mouth like a vow.
Like a plea.
And you answer her in the only language you have left.
In the only prayer you have left.
You pull her closer.
Your hands tangle in her hair, wild with grief and need.
Your fingers twist into the strands at the nape of her neck, desperate to keep her near, to feel the weight of her.
To know she is real.
You kiss her with the fury of a lost soul seeking light.
And she answers you.
With no hesitation.
No grace.
Only need.
That night, Caitlyn worships you.
But not with reverence.
Not with delicate prayers.
But with hands that devour.
With lips that consume.
She carries you into her room, your limbs weak and unsteady.
And when your knees buckle, she catches you.
Her arms steady around you, her breath at your ear.
“I have you,” she whispers.
A promise, low and feral.
She lays you down on the bed, her hands trembling as she undresses you.
You let her.
You do not resist when her mouth finds your throat.
When her lips trace the hollow beneath your jaw.
She leaves her mark on you—soft and fleeting at first.
But then harder.
Fiercer.
Like she wants to brand herself into you.
“You’re mine,” she rasps against your skin, her voice raw with need.
A confession.
A claim.
You do not protest.
You do not stop her when her teeth scrape softly against your collarbone, when she bites down just hard enough to make you gasp.
You do not stop her when she kisses her way down your stomach, slow and deliberate.
Her mouth reverent but merciless.
A prayer in every press of her lips.
Her hands trace the curve of your hips, shaking with restraint, afraid you might still disappear.
But you don’t.
You stay.
You stay with her.
You cry out softly when her lips trace the inside of your thigh, when her mouth finds the heat between your legs.
You bury your hands in her hair, trembling as you pull her closer.
Her breath is hot and heavy against you, and you arch into her mouth, into her devotion.
She leaves no part of you untouched.
No part of you unworshipped.
Her lips press prayers into your skin—desperate, broken prayers.
Her mouth speaks the only gospel she believes in now:
You.
And when she rises over you, when she sinks into you with shaking hands and a trembling mouth, your back arches off the sheets, wings limp and breathless.
Your nails score soft marks down her back, and she gasps at the sting.
“Say my name,” she pleads against your lips, her voice barely more than a broken whisper.
Her eyes—dark and raw—search yours, aching.
“Please, say it.”
And you do.
For the first time, you speak it without shame.
Without resistance.
“Caitlyn.”
A whisper, trembling and reverent.
The first prayer you speak without heaven in mind.
And she swallows it.
Takes it into her mouth like sacrament.
Like she could live on the sound of it.
That night, you do not reach for God.
You reach for her.
And she holds you like she is the only salvation you will ever need.
The morning is golden.
And cruel.
The sun breaks in through the window, spilling light across your skin like a slow and deliberate confession.
It exposes everything.
The shallow curve of your back.
The faint, bruised blooms where her mouth had lingered too long.
The tender scrape of her nails down your spine.
You sit by the window, draped in nothing but the linen sheet, your knees drawn loosely to your chest.
The fabric clings to your damp skin, still cloyed with the scent of her.
Your hair is tangled from her hands, wild and unkempt, and you hate that you no longer know if the heaviness in your chest is from grief—
or from the weight of her gaze.
Your fingers tremble faintly as you trace your own shoulder, feeling the faint indent where her lips had pressed too softly, too reverently.
The memories cling like damp cloth.
Too close.
Too heavy.
You should be praying.
You should be weeping for the sky, for the grace of it, for the gates you once called home.
But you only sit there.
Flightless.
Silent.
You press your forehead to the windowpane, its chill biting at your skin.
But the cold does nothing to cleanse you.
It only makes you ache.
You hear her footsteps before you see her.
Soft against the wooden floorboards.
Slow.
Careful.
As though she is afraid she will break whatever fragile peace exists between you.
Caitlyn enters quietly, her hair damp from the bath, clinging in darker strands at her temples.
She has already dressed, loose-fitting pants and a thin button-down shirt that clings in places still damp.
But she carries none of her usual formality, none of her sharpness.
No holster at her hip.
No stiff posture.
Just her.
She does not speak.
Not at first.
She only crosses the room, barefoot and silent, her eyes never leaving you.
And when she reaches you, she kneels beside you, slow and deliberate.
Her fingers find your bare shoulder—hesitant at first.
Testing.
Like she expects you to flinch.
She exhales softly, her hand warm and steady against your skin.
Her forehead comes to rest against your temple.
And she stays there.
Breathing you in.
No words.
Only silence.
For a long moment, neither of you speak.
You only breathe into each other.
Soft and slow.
Like two souls trying not to wake the storm.
And then her voice—low, raw from the night before—breaks the stillness.
Fragile and unsure.
The question is a whisper, meant only for you.
But it carries more weight than it should.
More fear.
More longing.
You do not answer right away.
Your throat tightens.
Your hands flex faintly against your knees.
But you feel her fingers trace along your shoulder—slow, soothing—and you lean into the touch before you realize it.
You feel her breath hitch.
“Hey…” she murmurs softly, shifting slightly, her other hand coming to your jaw, gently coaxing you to face her.
Her thumb brushes over your cheekbone, reverent, seeking.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes meet hers, and something in your chest buckles.
Because there is no demand in her gaze.
No expectation.
Only tenderness.
You hate the way your eyes burn at the edges.
The way the ache in your throat rises like a swell.
But Caitlyn does not look away.
She does not flinch from the fragility in your gaze.
She only leans in.
Her lips brush softly against your forehead, lingering longer than they should.
She does not press for more.
She only holds you there, unmoving, like she might somehow steal away the weight you carry if she just stays close enough.
“I’m here,” she whispers against your skin.
Soft.
Certain.
Steady.
“I’m right here.”
You exhale softly—ragged, broken—and you press your cheek against her palm, eyes fluttering closed.
You do not speak of the night before.
You do not say her name.
You do not weep for the sky.
You only let her hold you.
She shifts, carefully, pulling you into her lap.
Her arms wrap around you with a gentleness that is almost painful.
You bury your face in the curve of her neck, and she tightens her arms around you, one hand threading slowly through your hair.
You do not fight her.
You do not resist when she places her lips softly against your temple.
When she murmurs words into your skin—too quiet to be prayers, too raw to be anything but love.
“I’ve got you…”
“You’re safe…”
“I’m not letting go.”
And you believe her.
For once, you let yourself believe her.
The sun slips higher, spilling golden warmth across the room.
You feel it stroke your bare back, warm and insistent.
The light brushes your skin like a fading echo of the divine.
But you no longer flinch from it.
The sky is endless.
But you do not weep for it anymore.
You let yourself lean into her, your hands weak but clinging softly to the fabric of her shirt.
You let her press her lips against your hair.
Let her cradle you.
Let her carry you.
For now, this is your heaven.
And you do not turn away from it.
2087
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