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Alive in My Arms

GIF credit: @glenpowelljr — thank you for making this gif and allowing me to use it here. Used with permission.

Summary: After weeks hiding in a safe house with your young daughter, grieving and fearing the worst, you open the door to find your husband Ben Richards alive after surviving The Running Man. Bruised, shaken, and changed by what he’s endured, Ben returns to a home that’s been living in the shadow of his supposed death. What follows is a raw and tender reunion filled with relief, anger, and overwhelming desire as the two of you cling to each other, relearning one another through trembling hands, whispered confessions, and the fragile hope of finally being whole again.

Warnings: Descriptions of violence and injuries (all related to things that happen to Ben in the movie/book). Trauma. Emotional distress. Grief. Implied canon typical brutality from the movie/book. Explicit sexual content. 18+ - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word Count: 6,524

Author’s Note: That little scene we got at the end of the movie was not enough of a reunion for me, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Hope you enjoy! xx

Also shout out to @echoingbirdsofprey and @crossskylinesandcontrails for beta reading this for me and convincing me to post this when I wasn't sure about it. You two are the best hype girls I could ask for!

You’ve been pacing for so long the floorboards have started to creak in protest. Back and forth. Back and forth. Every few steps, you pause at the hallway that leads to your daughter’s room, just long enough to listen for her soft, even breathing.

The safe house is too quiet tonight. No updates. No whispers. No rumor mill spinning new versions of hell. Just silence. And you’ve learned that silence is crueler than any headline.

Your arms fold tight over your chest, nails digging into your skin as if pressure alone could hold you together. It’s been hours since you last cried, but the ache behind your eyes hasn’t eased. You’ve been trapped in the same two thoughts on a loop:

He might be dead.

He might not be.

The ping pong match of hope and grief is enough to turn your stomach.

You’re in the kitchen, halfway through pouring yourself a glass of water you probably won’t drink, when the knock comes.

Your first reaction is confusion. Your muscles go rigid. No one should be knocking. Not this late. And not here. Very few people are privy to your location. You were assured by the Network, even after the show ended, that you and your daughter would remain here.

Your hands shake as you set the glass down, water sloshing over the rim. You wipe it absently on your shirt as you move toward the door, heart pounding so hard it feels like a physical shove against your ribs.

Another knock. A little firmer this time. Still hesitant.

You swallow, grip the handle, and crack the door open.

And the world tilts.

Ben stands on the other side.

Alive.

His hair is messy, his jaw thick with stubble. He’s wearing dark clothes stained with dirt and dried blood. A bruise blooms along his left cheekbone, deep purple and angry. There’s a cut near his eyebrow, half healed. He has new scars, ones you weren’t prepared for. Ones you never wanted to see.

But his eyes…those warm, soft green eyes, are still his. And they soften the second they land on you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough but yet gentle.

Your knees nearly give out. You make a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and push the door fully open.

He steps forward instinctively. You reach for him.

Your fingers skim the side of his face first, trembling like leaves in the wind. Warm. Real. Your thumb brushes the bruise on his cheek, and he flinches. You drag your hand down to the line of his jaw, memorizing the new roughness.

“Ben…” Your voice cracks.

He exhales shakily, like your touch is the first breath he’s taken in days. “I’m here.”

Your other hand lands on his chest, over his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Alive. You press your palm harder, desperate, greedy, terrified this is a dream.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper, voice breaking apart in your throat. “I thought they killed you. I thought—”

“I know.” His hands finally close around your waist, pulling you against him. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The apology is what undoes you.

Your body collapses into his, the tension of weeks snapping like overstretched wire. You bury your face in his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his neck. He holds you instantly, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling your head like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

You sob. Quiet at first, then shaking and broken. He whispers soft, frantic nothings into your hair: It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m here. I missed you so much. I’m right here.

You can feel him tremble, too. He hides it well, but not enough that you miss it, little shivers running through his muscles, the kind that come from exhaustion, shock, and sheer relief.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” you breathe against his neck, soaking in the warmth, the scent of him, the reality of him.

Ben pulls back just enough to look at you, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes shine in the dim hallway light: tired, hurting, but filled with a tenderness that nearly breaks you.

“You will,” he promises softly. “You’re always gonna see me. I’m home.”

You cup his face again like you can’t help it. He leans into your palm this time, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

And then he pulls you into another hug. Tighter. Bone deep. The kind you feel in your spine. For the first time in weeks, you breathe.

You don’t let go of him as you draw him inside. Maybe you couldn’t even if you tried. One hand grips the front of his shirt—torn, dirty, stiff with dried sweat and someone else’s blood—and the other stays curled around his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you blink.

When the door clicks shut behind you, the safe house feels different. Smaller. Warmer. Like the walls themselves exhale.

Ben stands just inside the entryway, breathing hard, like he’s finally allowing himself to stop running. His eyes scan the room out of instinct, muscle memory from weeks of survival he hasn’t shaken yet.

Then his gaze comes back to you. And everything in him softens.

“She asleep?” He asks quietly, nodding toward the hall.

You swallow, nodding. “Yeah. Somehow.”

Ben’s jaw flexes, relief warring with guilt. “Good. Good…that’s good.”

You can see the shift in him. How he’s fighting to stay upright, stay composed, and stay in control. But his shoulders slump at the edges. His ribs lift unevenly when he breathes. His hands shake when he lifts them.

You touch him again without thinking. Fingertips brushing his bicep through the torn sleeve. Sliding up toward his shoulder. You pause when you feel how tense he is beneath your palm. You step closer. He steps toward you, too.

Your fingers trail up the curve of his neck, feeling the rough stubble, the sunburned skin. You trace the line of his jaw, down the column of his throat, over his collarbone. Checking. Confirming. Memorizing the places you almost never got to touch again.

Ben’s hands hover in the space between you, unsure where to land, until he finally gives in and cups your face with both palms, thumbs brushing the dried salt of tears from your cheeks.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes, voice breaking in the middle. “I missed you so damn much.”

Your throat tightens. “Ben…”

His thumbs stroke your cheekbones, tender and reverent, like he’s relearning you touch by touch. He leans in and presses his forehead against yours, breath warm, shaky, uneven.

“I thought about you every day,” he whispers. “Every single day. You and her. You got me through it. You kept me alive.”

Your hands curl around his wrists, holding him there.

“I thought you were gone,” you say again, voice barely audible. “I thought…God, Ben, I thought I’d lost you.”

He lets out a soft, strangled sound and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’s anchoring himself to the earth. You feel him breathe you in, breath trembling like he’s fighting off tears he refuses to shed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I’m sorry they scared you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I—” His voice cracks, the sound small and raw. “I hated knowing you were out here worrying. I hated it.”

You fist the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. “You survived. That’s all that matters.”

His breath hitches against your neck, and he nods, but you can feel how hard that acceptance is for him.

You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are wet, not tears fully, but shining with a depth of emotion that makes your stomach flip.

You reach up and touch the bruise on his cheek delicately. He doesn’t flinch this time. Instead, he leans into your hand like it’s the first soft thing he’s felt in weeks.

“What did they do to you?” You whisper.

His jaw tightens. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

But you both know that’s not the question you were really asking.

He sees it in your eyes, and his expression gentles again. “I’m okay. I promise.”

You let your hand drift down from his cheek, over the side of his neck, down to his chest. His breath stutters when your palm settles over his heart again.

Steady. Strong. Still his.

Your thumb brushes the edge of a cut near his collarbone, and he inhales sharply. Not in pain, but something else entirely. His eyes flicker down to your hand, then back to your face, and the air between you changes.

His fingers slide from your jaw to your throat, featherlight, like he’s afraid to spook you. His other hand settles on your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You shiver. Hard.

Ben notices. His breath catches.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, a warning and a plea all at once. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to his. His eyes are a storm of fear, relief, hunger, love, and exhaustion all tangled into one, overwhelming mess.

“This okay?” He asks, voice rough.

You nod. Too fast. Too eager. “Yeah. Yes. Please.”

Slowly, he brings your hands to his lips. One at a time he presses soft kisses to your knuckles. Then the heels of your palms. Then the tips of your fingers.

Ben lifts your right hand and presses it to his cheek again, closing his eyes as he leans into the warmth. When he opens them, he looks wrecked.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to touch you again,” he admits, voice hoarse.

Your chest tightens painfully. “Ben…”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Can I…” His thumb brushes your lower lip, barely there. “Can I kiss you?”

Your answer is barely a breath. “Yes.”

Relief flashes through his eyes. Bright. Overwhelming. Almost grateful.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. His other hand anchors you by the waist, pulling you close enough that you can feel the tension vibrating through him.

And then he leans in.

You meet him halfway and press your lips to his. Softly at first. A trembling brush of your lips against his. Ben exhales like you’ve just brought him back to life.

The kiss deepens slowly, carefully, both of you clinging to each other. His hands come up to cradle your face again, thumbs stroking your cheeks as his mouth moves with yours, desperate and tender all at once.

A small, broken sound escapes him—a mix of relief and desperation—and something in your chest caves in.

You kiss him harder.

Ben responds instantly, pulling you closer, pressing his forehead to yours between kisses, whispering your name like a prayer he never thought he’d say again.

“God,” he murmurs between breaths. “God, I missed you.”

You touch his cheek again, his neck, his shoulders. You’re still checking, still verifying his existence.

He lets out a soft, shaky laugh against your mouth.

“You can touch me all you want,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Then his gaze flicks past your shoulder, toward the hallway that leads to Cathy’s room. The same room you’ve stood in night after night, telling your daughter “Daddy’s fighting hard to come home. Daddy loves you.”

You feel your throat tighten. He doesn’t even say it. He doesn’t have to. A little, broken smile tugs at your mouth.

“Go,” you whisper.

Ben swallows hard. His voice is barely there. “Are you sure…?”

“Yes.” You smooth your hand down his arm, feeling the bruises, feeling the warmth underneath. “She’s been waiting for you.”

Something fragile flashes across his face. Joy. Grief. Disbelief. All tangled together. Then he nods, slow and reverent, and pads down the hall. You follow him to the doorway, lingering back just enough to give him space.

Ben stops at Cathy’s doorframe, bracing a hand against it like he needs the support. His shoulders rise on a shaky breath before he pushes the door open an inch.

The night light glows soft in the corner, casting warm gold across your little girl’s face. She’s curled in a loose ball, her favorite stuffed animal tucked under her chin. Peaceful. Safe. Unaware of how close she came to losing everything.

His hand comes up to cover his mouth as he stares at her, chest shuddering once, twice.

Ben takes a step inside as he continues to stare at her. His hand comes up to cover his mouth.

He crouches beside the bed, moving so gently it almost hurts to watch. Then, with a care that brings a sting to your eyes, he slips an arm under Cathy’s small, warm body and lifts her against his chest. She stirs, just a soft little sigh, then settles into him like she’s known he was coming.

Ben bows his head against her hair.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispers, voice cracking on the first word. “Daddy’s here.”

Your vision blurs.

He rocks her just a little, breathing her in like he needs the proof of her weight, her warmth. His thumb strokes her back, slow and shaky, and you can hear faint murmurs between his breaths. Things meant only for her. Promises. Apologies. The kind of confessions only a man who fought like hell to survive can make.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers.

Cathy’s tiny hand curls into the fabric of his shirt, like she’s reaching for him even in sleep. Ben freezes, blinking hard, then presses a trembling kiss to the top of her head.

You have to hold onto the doorframe for a second, because the sight: this big, bruised, hurting man clutching his daughter like she’s his entire heart, hits you with a force that nearly drops you to your knees.

He eventually straightens, still holding her close for just a few more moments before easing her back into bed. He tucks the blanket around her, smoothing her hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering like he can’t quite let go.

Then he steps back. He turns toward you with wet eyes and a look that knocks the breath out of your chest.

You open your arms. He’s in them instantly.

His face presses into your shoulder, and you feel his breath shake out against your skin as you hold him just as tightly as he held her.

“She’s okay,” you murmur into his hair. “You’re both okay.”

And for the first time since he showed up at your door, Ben lets himself fully believe it.

When you finally pull back from him, your palms still rest on him. Ben looks wrecked in the most beautiful way: eyes glassy, lashes damp, chest rising and falling like he’s still trying to catch up to reality.

You smooth your thumb across the cut near his cheekbone.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely there. “Let’s go to bed.”

His breath catches. Not from lust, but from that bone deep need to be close. To be safe. To be held. He nods, slow and obedient, fingers brushing yours like he doesn’t want to break contact for even a second.

You lace your hand through his and guide him down the hall. The house is quiet, soft with night, the only sound the whisper of your bare feet and the uneven drag of his breath behind you. The bedroom feels smaller somehow when you step inside, like the air thickens around the two of you. Like every hour you spent without knowing if he was alive is still lingering in the corners.

You let go of his hand only long enough to walk to the closet. There’s a storage bin in the corner, one you picked in a panic when you fled to the safe house. You kneel and flip it open.

Inside are a few folded shirts. One pair of worn sweatpants. A hoodie that still smells faintly like him no matter how many times you’ve held it against your face these last few weeks.

You look up at him. Ben’s gaze is soft and aching.

“Let me get you some clothes,” you tell him. Your voice wavers a little. “I didn’t know if…I just…I needed something of yours.”

Something shifts in him at that. His jaw tightens, his throat works on a swallow, and he steps forward like he can’t stand the distance anymore.

“Baby…”

You clear your throat, blinking away the emotion burning at the edges of your eyes.

“You should shower,” you manage. You pick up a shirt and the sweats and hand them to him. “There’s clean towels in the cabinet. I’ll be right here.”

Ben hesitates, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I won’t be long,” he says softly, like he’s promising more than a shower.

He disappears into the bathroom, and the door closes with a soft click. A second later, the water comes on.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the closed door, letting every breath try to settle the trembling relief inside your chest. He’s alive. He’s here. He’s steps away, under the same roof as you again. It still feels unreal.

And then the water turns off. A moment later the door opens, steam rolling out in a soft wave. Ben steps into the doorway, towel in hand, wearing the clothes you pressed to your heart on nights you couldn’t sleep.

They fit him differently now. Looser in some places. Stretched tight in others. Bruises map across the visible parts of his skin, faint shadows disappearing beneath the worn cotton of his shirt.

Something warm and hungry and unbearably tender flickers through his eyes. He sets the towel aside and crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat from his shower rising off his skin.

You tilt your chin up to look at him. His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice low and rough.

You don’t get the chance to move. Ben is already cupping your face, leaning in, pressing his mouth to yours like he needs to make up for every single second he lost. The kiss is immediate and desperate, his lips warm and insistent, breath still foggy from the steam.

His hands slide into your hair, fingers threading through, holding you close as he deepens the kiss. You cling to him, palms flattening against his chest just to feel the rise and fall of his breath. Your body leans into his automatically, molding to him, needing to feel every solid inch.

Ben groans softly into your mouth. You tug him closer, and he goes willingly, his body fitting between your knees as you pull him in by the shirt. His hands cradle your head, thumbs stroking your jaw as he kisses you again. Slower this time, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

You gasp when he tugs you closer, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, now smelling like soap instead of sweat and dirt.

You want him closer. You want skin. You want proof that he’s really here and alive.

You break the kiss only long enough to tug his shirt up. He lifts his arms, eyes never leaving yours, chest rising with fast, hungry breaths.

But the second the fabric clears his torso, everything inside you stutters to a halt. Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. The world narrows to the battered landscape of his skin.

Bruises bloom across his ribs. Angry purples. Sickly yellows. Deep reds that look fresher. Scrapes and cuts pattern his torso like someone dragged him through hell, and he had to claw his way back out.

Then you see it. The harsh, ragged slice just under his ribs. Angry and newer than the rest of the injuries. The edges still pink.

Your hand trembles before you even touch him.

Ben sees the shift in your face as your eyes take in the stab wound. His smile falters, softening with something that looks like guilt.

“Baby…” he starts, but you’re already reaching out.

Your fingertips graze the skin around the wound, and he flinches. It’s barely there. A twitch really. But it’s enough to make our whole body go cold.

“B-Ben…what did they do to you?”

He covers your hand with his own immediately. Warm and steady, despite the bruises. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles even though he’s the one that’s injured.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” The words spill out on a shaky whisper. “You’re hurt. You were...” Your throat closes around the memory, the weeks of not knowing, the nights you sat awake imagining the worst. “You were stabbed.”

He exhales slowly, guiding your hand toward the scar. You try to pull back, but he won’t let you.

“Touch me,” he says softly. “It’s okay.”

Your fingers trace the raised line of the wound. His breath hitches. Yours does too.

“I thought...” A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Ben steps closer, close enough that his forehead could touch yours if he leaned just an inch. His hand finds your waist, pulling you into the heat of his body.

“I’m right here,” he whispers. “You didn’t lose me. I told you I’d come back.”

You trail your fingertips to another bruise, darker and deeper. He winces again. Just a flicker, a sharp inhale through his teeth.

“Ben.” You cup his face with both hands now, your tears falling freely. “How can you say you’re fine? They did this to you. They hurt you.”

He presses a kiss to your palm.

“But I’m alive,” he murmurs. “And I’m here with you and Cathy.”

Your breath breaks. You’ve never been good at crying silently, and he knows it. He slides a hand behind your neck and pulls you into him, holding you against his bare chest, your cheek pressed to warm, bruised skin. You cling to him, arms tight around his torso, terrified to press too hard, terrified not to hold him tight enough.

“I hate that they touched you,” you whisper against his skin. “I hate that you went through this alone.”

“You were with me,” he says. “Every second. You don’t know how many nights I closed my eyes and pictured your face just to keep moving.”

You pull back, swiping your thumb under your eye. Ben’s hands settle gently on your hips, holding you steady, grounding you.

He leans in, brushing his lips over yours again. When you kiss him back this time, it’s with trembling hands and a heart that’s been cracked open and glued back together all in one night.

Your palms smooth up his sides slowly, carefully, avoiding the worst bruises. He shudders at the touch, his breath deepening, heat flickering beneath the vulnerability.

You press your forehead to his, whispering, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He smiles: small, aching, impossibly gentle.

“You couldn’t,” he murmurs. “Even if you tried.”

His thumb traces your cheek, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough, coaxing.

He takes your hand and walks backwards toward the bed, drawing you with him, eyes locked on yours. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, he sits down slowly, never letting go of you.

He tugs gently, just enough to guide you forward, wordlessly inviting you closer. You climb into his lap, straddling him carefully, mindful of his injuries. His hands settle on your hips, fingers warm and sure against your skin. The closeness steals your breath; his forehead drops to your collarbone as he exhales a shaky sound, almost relief, almost worship.

You pull back a little, breath trembling.

“Ben,” you whisper, searching his face. “Are you sure? After everything?”

He lifts his head, and the look he gives you is so tender it feels like it cracks something open inside you. His palms slide up your back, slow and reassuring.

He brushes his knuckles along your jaw, thumb lingering at your lower lip.

“I want this.” His voice dips, soft but steady. “There is nothing, nothing, I need more than being close to you right now.”

You push him gently onto his back, and he lets you, eyes locked on your face. His hands slide from your hips up to your waist, warm and steady. You press your palms to his chest, trying to avoid the worst of the injuries.

“We’re gonna have to talk about you lying to me.” Your voice trembles, even as you try to stay firm.

He blinks up at you, lashes fluttering as his hands skim along your sides, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your shirt like he can’t help himself. “Mmm, what did I lie to you about, baby?”

“You promised me you wouldn’t do The Running Man.

Ben hums, and infuriatingly soft, low sound, and leans up just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, right where your pulse is thundering.

“That,” he murmurs against your skin, “sounds like a conversation I’d be really happy to have later.”

“Ben.” You put a hand to his chest again, pushing him back gently.

He goes, but he drags his mouth along your collarbone as he settles, lips warm and maddening and intentional.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whisper, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “For weeks I thought you were going to die, and then I thought you were dead. And now—” Your fingers tremble as you trace the bruise along his ribcage. “Now I see what they did to you. You told me you were okay and you’re…Ben, you’re not okay.”

His hand covers yours, warm and steady.

“I will be,” he says softly.

Then he lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your palm, slow and reverent, like he’s trying to soothe the tremor out of you.

“Baby,” he whispers, “I’m here. I’m alive. Touch me.”

You try. You try so hard to stay serious, to keep your focus on the anger sitting sharp in your chest. “You can’t just distract me with…” You suck in a breath when his thumb glides under your shirt again, sweeping across bare skin.

He sits up suddenly, careful but determined, pressing his mouth to your throat. The kiss is soft at first, then deeper, lingering, like he’s trying to convince your heartbeat to slow down.

“Ben…” You scoff.

You try to pull back but he follows, chasing your mouth with his own, kissing you like he needs it to breathe. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying wide as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“You’re mad at me,” he whispers between kisses. “I get it.”

“I am,” you breathe, even as your nails curl into his shoulders.

“But we’re both here,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “We’re both safe.” He kisses the other corner. “And I am dying to love my wife.”

“Ben,” you whisper, trying again to find that firm tone, that hard edge. “You can’t just—”

But he puts his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours, breath shaking with emotion he doesn’t know how to carry.

“You can be mad,” he says. “You can yell at me. You can make me sleep on the floor after. I don’t care.” His hands cup your face, strong and pleading. “But let me have you. Please..”

Your heart falters.

He swallows, thumb brushing your lower lip. “I need this. I need you. Please.”

Your resolve wavers like a candle in a draft. Because the truth is…you need him too. You exhale, shaky and helpless.

“We’re talking about this,” you whisper fiercely. “Later.”

“Later,” he promises.

His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you just a little closer, just a little more onto him. You feel the heat of him through his sweatpants, the press of him growing firmer under you, and you can’t help the soft breath you let out against his mouth.

You kiss down the line of his jaw, the column of his throat, careful around the bruises on his shoulder even as your need rises sharp and warm under your skin.

You kiss him again to hide the flush in your cheeks, but he doesn’t let you. He kisses you back harder, deeper, like he wants to taste every breath you take.

His hands roam your back, your sides, learning you all over again. When you roll your hips, testing him, he sucks in a breath and digs his fingers into your waist.

“Don’t tease,” he warns softly, voice thick with need.

“Then don’t make that sound,” you whisper back, breathless.

His hands grab the hem of your shirt and work it up and off. The cotton pools at your elbows, and you shuck it off, leaving your upper half bare to the cool air of the little bedroom.

Ben’s eyes are hungry but gentle, the want in them tempered by a kind of awe. He moves his hands up, tracing the skin over your ribs. He leans in and kisses you, soft at first, then deeper, like a man dying of thirst at the edge of a river.

You let your body lean into his, feeling the heat of his chest through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and you close your eyes, willing yourself to believe it’s real.

Your hands find his chest again, and your eyes run over the bruises and cuts that cover him. His eyes catch your gaze.

He pulls you in, burying his nose in your neck, inhaling you. His hands slide up your back, memorizing the familiar terrain. You guide his touch, pressing his palms flat against your skin, urging him to claim you, to remember that you’re both still here.

When you reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, he tenses a tad. You ease the fabric over his hips, careful not to disturb the suture. He hisses when the waistband grazes the wound, but he doesn’t move to stop you. Instead, he grips the blanket beneath him, knuckles whitening, and watches you with eyes that gleam in the half light.

He reaches for your face, thumb brushing away a stray tear before it can escape.

“I love you,” he says, the words a confession, a benediction.

For a moment you can’t speak, the lump in your throat crowding out anything but the frantic, grateful stutter of your pulse. You answer by folding yourself atop him, sealing your mouths together, pouring everything you can’t say into the heat of his lips.

Your hands wander. You trace the landscape of his chest, the subtle slope of muscle, the jagged edges of healing. You run your nails down his ribs, counting each one, and he shivers under the touch. He moves with care, like he’s afraid of breaking you, but you urge him on, guiding his hands to your breasts, your hips, your thighs. There’s nothing tentative in your hunger; you need him as much as you need oxygen, and you’re not afraid to show it.

When he responds, it’s with a slow, building intensity, as if he’s rediscovering the rhythm of desire after a long, bitter drought. His hands are rough, the callouses scraping sweetly against your skin, but his touch is tender. He kisses you with the reverence of a believer and the desperation of a sinner, alternating between worship and want.

He mouths over your collarbone, down your sternum, lingering at the hollow of your throat. He finds the places he still remembers, nipping the soft flesh at your side, the hollow of your knee, the patch above your hip that always made you squirm. You feel yourself unraveling under the onslaught, every nerve set alight, every part of you desperate to be touched, to be claimed.

He rolls you onto your back, propping himself above you on shaking arms, and the sight of him there—bruised, battered, but still impossibly, beautifully alive—makes you want to cry all over again. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging him down for a kiss, and he laughs against your lips, a sound so full of joy and relief it feels like a miracle.

He enters you slow and carefully. The stretch is familiar, grounding, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He buries his face in your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, and you hold him there, arms tight around his back, unwilling to let go.

He moves in you like he’s trying to memorize every sensation, every shudder, every gasp you make. You meet him thrust for thrust, matching his rhythm, letting him set the pace. There’s no frantic scramble for release, only the slow, deliberate reclaiming of intimacy. Every time he moves, it’s an act of rebuilding, a declaration that you’re both still here, still capable of this kind of closeness.

You keep your eyes open. You refuse to look away, even when the pleasure is too much, even when tears blur your vision. You want to remember this, to etch every detail into your bones. Ben’s face is a study in contradiction: the furrowed brow of concentration, the slack jaw of surrender, the tear that escapes from the corner of his eye and lands on your cheek. You reach up and wipe it away, smiling softly, and he kisses your palm in gratitude.

When you come, it's a flood that leaves you limp and sobbing. Ben holds you, stroking your hair, shushing you, telling you over and over how much he loves you. You cling to him so hard your arms hurt, and you think, if you just hold on tight enough, you could keep him here forever.

He follows a minute later, hips jerking, face buried in your neck, and for a second you feel him tremble so hard you think he’ll shatter. You hold him as he shakes, as he gasps your name, as he tries to catch his breath.

You don’t let him go, not for a long time. You keep your hands on his back, tracing slow patterns, soothing the tremors. He buries his face in your neck, and you feel the wet brush of tears against your skin, but you say nothing, letting him come apart in the safety of your arms.

After, you roll together onto your sides, bodies tangled, limbs a loose knot. Ben pulls the blanket over you both, tucking you in like he’s afraid you’ll catch cold even in the warmth of the room. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your head, breathing in the scent of home. His hand settles over your heart, as if to keep it beating, as if to promise it won’t stop again.

For a long while you lie in silence, listening to the thud of his heartbeat, the steady whisper of your own breath.

You pull the blanket over both of you, and nestle together, legs tangled under the covers. Ben kisses the top of your head. His arm settles around you.

“You okay?” He asks, the words muffled in your hair.

You nod, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Are you?”

He laughs, the sound low and content. “Never better.”

You lie in silence, listening to the quiet. For the first time in weeks, your body feels like your own again. You let yourself relax. Ben’s hand finds yours under the covers, and he laces your fingers together.

He pulls you closer, as if you might drift off, and you let him. You could stay like this forever. Tomorrow is still uncertain, but for tonight at least you have each other.

You drift off, wrapped in him. His breath is slow and steady against your hair. His heartbeat is a lullaby to your ear.

When you blink awake, the curtains are still drawn, the room washed in the soft blue of early morning. The sheets are warm beside you…but empty.

Your stomach drops.

For a second — a brutal, breath-stealing second — you wonder if last night was a dream. If your mind, exhausted from worry and longing, conjured him out of thin air just to give you a moment of peace.

“Ben?” Your voice is small and hoarse.

Then you hear him. His voice, low and gentle, carrying from down the hallway.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s right here. I’ve got you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the tension leaving your body so quickly it almost makes you dizzy.

A moment later, Ben appears in the doorway, your daughter in his arms. Her face is pressed into his shoulder, little fingers gripping his shirt as she sniffles.

His eyes find yours, and relief flashes across your face. He gives you a soft half smile, the one that always hits you right in the ribs.

“She had a nightmare,” he murmurs. “Woke up calling for you.”

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing slow circles on her back. You reach out instinctively, brushing a curl off her cheek. Her eyes flutter open, glassy with leftover tears.

“Hey, baby,” you whisper. “You’re okay.”

She reaches for you, and Ben shifts her easily into your arms. Her warm little body curls against your chest like she’s trying to fold herself into you. You kiss the top of her head, breathing her in.

You start to hand her back to Ben, the old instinct kicking in. “She should probably go back to her bed. If we start this again, she’ll—”

Ben shakes his head, soft but firm, brushing a thumb along your arm.

“Let’s make an exception. Just for tonight,” he whispers, leaning in closer.

Ben lies back beside you, lifting the covers so the three of you can tuck in together. Your daughter wiggles between you both, her small hand reaching automatically for his chest. He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, and places his bigger hand over hers.

You scoot closer until your forehead rests against his shoulder. His arm comes around you without hesitation, pulling you and your daughter into the warmth of his chest. His heart beats steady beneath your cheek, strong and real and here.

Your daughter sighs, already half asleep again. Ben presses a slow kiss to the top of her head, then to your temple.

“Missed this,” he whispers into your hair.

You slide your hand across his chest, fingertips meeting his before lacing together.

“We’re okay now,” you murmur back. “We’re all okay.”

He exhales, and the three of you settle into the same breath, the same warmth, the same space. Bodies lined up like puzzle pieces that finally found each other again.

Your daughter drifts first. Then you. Then Ben, his arm never moving from around the two of you.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, your family falls asleep as one. Safe. Whole. Together.

-

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