Moments || (Xaden x Reader)
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: A continuation of my 'Moments' series with our favourite Wingleader.
Authors Note: Pre-established relationship below. No warnings. Not in any particular order or canon. Just realistic moments. Enjoy!
The door barely makes a sound when it finally closes behind you, but it feels like it echoes anyway - loud in the quiet that follows battle.
You don't remember the hours that's passed since finally dismounting from your dragon. Not really. Just flashes - mud clinging to your boots, the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, the cries of those injured, the tense debrief of leadership. Your body is heavy in that dangerous way, where exhaustion borders on collapse.
You feel the wall of warmth behind you, gentle hands firmly clasping your hips and slowly turning you around.
For a second, neither of you says anything. You'd already had your emotional reunion on the battlefield, but that had been momentary before you were both swept up in the aftermath.
So, for now you just look at each other.
He's a mess. Blood - some his, some not - streaked across his jaw and throat. One sleeve is torn clean through, exposing a gash that's already clotted dark. His eyes find yours immediately, sharp despite everything, and something in your chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.
You lean into his hold as one of his hands lifts up to cup your cheek. His hands are firm, grounding, like he needs to feel that you're real.
"You're hurt," he murmurs, voice rough.
That's the extent of the conversation.
It always is after days like this.
His fingers move to the fastenings of your leathers without asking, slower than usual - not because he's unsure, but because he's careful. His jaw tightens as he loosens the buckles across your chest. There's a bruise blooming across your ribs, deep and angry.
"You should've pulled back when I told you to," he murmurs.
You huff, your mouth almost curving in response.
You don't argue. You don't have the energy.
You return the favour, hands shaking just slightly as you help him. Piece by piece, the armour comes off - yours, then his - until it lies in a discarded heap on the floor, smeared with dirt and blood and the remnants of a day you'd both rather forget.
"Shower," you say softly.
The water runs hot - almost too hot - but neither of you flinch. You stand under it together, not touching at first, just letting it wash everything away. Blood swirls down the drain in thin, rust-coloured streams. The sharp scent of battle fades, replaced by steam and the lavender body wash you loved so much.
Eventually, his hands find your hair, gently pulling the knots and tangles free. His hands caress down your body, tender and searching. You let him, accepting the care and devotion he shows you in quiet moments like this.
You lean against him, lips pressed against his collarbone, head tucked under his chin, chests pressed together. You hold each other close and you don't speak a word.
You never have, to have a conversation with each other. To understand each other.
After, you sit on the edge of the bed wrapped in clean clothes. The exhaustion hits harder now, creeping into your bones, making your limbs feel too heavy to lift.
Xaden kneels in front of you.
Carefully - always carefully - he takes your arm, inspecting the cut along your side. His touch is steady, but you can see it in his eyes: the restrained anger, the quiet relief, the way he's holding himself together by sheer will.
"This is going to sting," he says.
"I'm sure I can take it."
Still, you hiss when the antiseptic hits. His jaw tightens like he's the one feeling it.
"Hold still," he murmurs, softer now.
Your body goes compliant under his gentle touches, completely trusting him to take care of you.
He presses a reverent kiss to each marker on your skin.
You return the favour once he's done, tending to the gash on his arm. He doesn't react much - barely even flinches - but his hand settles on your thigh, fingers curling slightly like he needs the contact.
When you're finished, neither of you moves for a moment.
You just sit there, basking in each other's physical presence.
That you're both alive and breathing.
The bed feels like salvation.
You don't even bother with the blankets properly - just collapse into it, the mattress dipping to your familiar shapes. For a second, you think you might just fall asleep like that-
-but then Xaden shifts, pulling you to him.
His arms wrap around you, strong and certain, drawing you close until there's no space left between you. Your head tucks beneath his chin, his hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers threading into your damp hair.
His breath is warm against your temple, uneven at first before it slowly steadies. You can feel the tension in him - the remnants of battle, of fear, of everything he doesn't say - gradually begin to ease.
Your hand presses lightly against his chest, right over his heart.
"It's okay," you whisper, "we're okay."
His arms tighten in response.
"You almost weren't," he grumbles.
"So dramatic," you mumble, too tired to put any real bite into it.
A soft huff of laughter brushes your skin. "You love it."
"Not if you give yourself a heart attack from worrying."
Xaden grumbles again in protest, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to - you always know what he's saying, or not.
Minutes pass, maybe longer. Time blurs in that soft, hazy way that only comes after survival.
Eventually, his lips brush against your hair.
"You're here," he whispers.
It's not a question. It's not quiet relief either. It's something deeper, something steadier.
"I'm here," you answer, voice barely audible. "I'll always be here."
His hold on you tightens again, just for a moment - like he's sealing the truth of it into his bones.
And then the room finally quiets.
You just lie there tangled together in the quiet, holding on like the world might try to take it away again in the morning.
And for now, that's enough.
The door opens quietly - Xaden never makes unnecessary noise - but the second he steps into the room, something shifts.
The shadows curl tighter around him, instinctively alert, and his gaze snaps across the space like a blade being drawn.
You're sitting on the edge of the bed, back slightly hunched, shoulders trembling just enough that he notices immediately. Your face is turned away, but it doesn't matter - he can hear it. The uneven breaths. The soft, stubborn attempts to stay quiet.
And that - that - is enough to make something dark and dangerous rise in his chest.
He crosses the room in three strides, all sharp edges and barely restrained violence, already scanning you for injuries, for bruises, for anything.
His voice is low. Controlled. But there's an unmistakable edge to it - the kind that had made grown cadets freeze where they stand.
You sniff, quickly wiping at your face. "No one."
His hand comes up, gently but firmly tilting your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes. They soften the second he sees your face - tear-streaked, flushed, utterly miserable - but the tension in his jaw doesn't ease.
"You're upset," he says, quieter now, but no less intense. "So I'll ask again, who-"
You let out a weak, watery huff, somewhere between a laugh and another sob. "You will."
"I won't," he counters immediately, like it's not even a possibility. "Try me."
There's a pause where you hesitate.
Finally, you take a shaky breath. "...I dropped my pastry."
Xaden just blinks at you.
You press your lips together, clearly trying to hold it together and failing miserably. "I went to the kitchens early because they had those honey pastries I like, and then-" your voice wobbles again, "-I tripped on the stupid step outside and it fell and it got all dirty and-and I was really looking forward to it and it's just gone."
His expression crosses between concern and something else - you suspect it's amusement.
"...That's why you're crying?" He asks carefully.
"...Why didn't you just get another one?"
"That was the last one!" You exclaim, your lip wobbling again at the thought.
That's the moment he loses.
A quiet, disbelieving exhale leaves him as he drops his forehead briefly against yours, shoulders shaking once with a suppressed laugh.
"You're unbelievable," he mutters.
"Oh my gods, I told you it was stupid-" you start, mortified now, trying to pull away, but his hands immediately come up, steadying you.
"No, no-" There's a grin in his voice now, unmistakable, even if he's trying to hide it. "I said I don't care."
"You're laughing at me! I'm supposed to be a badass dragon rider, but here I am crying over a pastry!"
"You're still a badass dragon rider," he corrects, failing slightly when a small chuckle escapes anyway.
You smack lightly at his arm. "Xaden!"
"Alright-alright," he concedes, catching your hand before you can do it again, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. "I'm sorry, it's a tragedy really."
You glare at him, but it's weaker now, the tears already starting to slow.
"I wouldn't dare," he says solemnly, which would be more convincing if his lips weren't still twitching.
But then - just as quickly as the amusement came, it softens into something else.
His thumb brushes beneath your eye, wiping away the lingering tear there, his touch careful in a way that doesn't match the man everyone else sees.
"You've had a long week," he says quietly. Not a question. A knowing.
You sigh, the fight leaving you all at once. "I think I'm just...tired. And everything feels...bigger than it should be."
"Hm." His gaze studies you for a moment, sharp and perceptive as ever. "And the pastry was the final blow?"
You narrow your eyes slightly. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he says, already pulling you gently to your feet, "that we're fixing this."
"No one makes my girl cry over a pastry and gets away with it."
"It was the ground's fault."
Before you can argue further, he's already guiding you toward the door, one hand firm at your waist, the other still clutching yours.
You blink. "They're probably closed now-"
There's something in his voice that makes you pause.
"...What are you going to do?"
He glances down at you, a slow, slightly wicked smile tugging at his mouth. "You'll see."
Ten minutes later, you're sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs slightly while Xaden leans casually against the counter beside you like he owns the place.
Well it’s Aretia, so he basically does.
A very nervous-looking kitchen worker scurries around, hurriedly preparing a fresh batch of honey pastries under Xaden's very watchful gaze.
"You didn't need to threaten them," you murmur.
You snort, unable to help it.
His attention snaps back to you instantly, the faintest hint of satisfaction crossing his face at the sound.
When the plate is finally handed over, still warm, golden, and perfect, he takes it without breaking eye contact with you.
"Here," he says, offering it out.
You hesitate for half a second - then take one.
Your eyes close immediately, an undignified groan slipping past your lips before you can help it.
Xaden raises an eyebrow, keeping his suggestive comment back until he knew you were feeling, "Better?"
You nod, taking another bite. "Much better. You need one."
"I'm not the one who cried over it."
"I will cry again if you don't have one."
That earns a quiet laugh.
He plucks one from the plate, taking a bite before setting the rest back onto the plate.
For a moment, it's just this.
Warm light. Quiet laughter. Sugar on your fingers. The chaos of earlier fading into something softer.
Then his hand comes up, brushing away the tear tracks that still remained. His thumb lingers for a second longer than necessary before he drops his hand.
But not before you catch it - threading your fingers through his.
"Thank you," you say, squeezing his hand gently.
He doesn't even say anything, just raises your linked hands and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, continuing to watch as you eat.
No matter how ridiculous the reason, no matter how small, if something makes you cry?
Xaden will burn the world down to fix it.
Or, apparently just bribe the kitchen staff to make a special batch of pastries for you every day.
The first few days at Basgiath are always chaos—new cadets, shifting alliances, instructors barking orders like they’re trying to shake weakness out of the stone itself.
But none of that is what has Xaden distracted.
More specifically—something off about you.
He notices it in fragments at first. The way you shift your shirt collar slightly higher than usual. The way your hand brushes your collarbone absentmindedly, like you’re checking something is still there. The way you angle your body just a fraction away from him when he gets too close.
Small things, but he’s spent years learning you—mapping every habit, every tell, every shift in your breathing.
So of course he notices and it bothers him - immensely.
By the time you both make it back to your room that evening, he’s done pretending he hasn’t noticed.
The door shuts behind you with a solid click.
You blink, halfway through unfastening your gauntlets. “Wow. No hello? No ‘how was your day’?”
“Your shirt,” he clarifies, already stepping closer, eyes narrowed slightly. “Now.”
There’s no heat in it—not like that.
This is something else. Suspicion. Concern.
You hesitate just a fraction too long and that’s all it takes.
His jaw tightens. “What happened?”
You sigh, dropping your hands. “I’m not lying, I just—”
And then—slowly—you reach up, fingers catching the edge of your shirt, and pull it down just enough.
Just enough to reveal it.
It sits just beneath your collarbone—thin but deliberate, not jagged like a battle wound, not accidental. It’s clean. Intentional.
Fresh enough that it hasn’t fully faded.
For a second, Xaden doesn’t react at all.
The words come out sharp. Controlled only by force.
You wince slightly. “It’s just a—”
“A scar,” he snaps. “I can see that. That’s not what I asked.”
His hand comes up before he can stop himself, hovering just above it—not touching, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Who did this to you?” His voice drops, dangerously quiet. “Tell me.”
His gaze snaps to yours. “Don’t—”
You actually watch the moment it registers—the shift in his expression, the disbelief sharpening into something darker.
“I did it,” you repeat, quieter now.
“Why?” The word is rough, dragged out of him like it costs something. “Why would you—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard enough you can see the muscle jump. “Why would you mar your skin like that?”
Not just anger, but hurt. Real, raw, personal hurt.
You soften slightly, stepping closer despite the storm brewing in him.
That doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
His expression darkens immediately. “Don’t say that like it makes sense.”
“It shouldn’t. Why would you ever hurt yourself for me!?”
You reach for his hand then—slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.
You guide his hand up, pressing it gently against your collarbone, right over the scar.
His fingers twitch at the contact.
“You carry responsibility for all of us,” you say softly. “The marked ones. Me.” A small pause. “You bear it here.” You shift slightly, your free hand brushing briefly over his back, where those scars lie hidden beneath his clothes.
“You take that on without question. Without hesitation.” Your voice steadies. “So I thought… it was only fair you weren’t the only one carrying something.”
“You think this makes it equal?” he asks finally, voice low.
“No,” you admit. “I don’t think anything ever could.”
“Because I wanted a choice in it.”
You hold his gaze, not backing down.
“They didn’t choose what was done to them,” you continue. “But I chose this. I chose to stand with you. To carry something that ties me to you—not just in words or feelings, but in something real.”
His hand is still against your skin.
“You already are tied to me,” he mutters. “You don’t need to carve yourself open to prove it.”
“I know,” you say gently. “This wasn’t about proving anything to you.”
And then, honest as ever—
“I wanted to take responsibility for you, so you don't have to carry all this alone.”
The anger doesn’t disappear, but it shifts and softens at the edges.
Becomes something tangled with understanding—and something far more dangerous for him.
That same instinct. That same need to choose, to claim, to protect - it was the same reason he had taken the scars on his back.
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters.
A small, tentative smile tugs at your lips. “You’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious.” His gaze flicks to the scar again, something fierce and conflicted burning behind his eyes. “You don’t get to just—just hurt yourself like that and expect me to be okay with it.”
“I didn’t expect you to be okay with it.”
For a second, neither of you moves.
Not in anger, but in something else entirely.
His hand slides from your collarbone to the back of your neck, pulling you into him in one swift motion. His mouth crashes against yours—not gentle, not restrained, but not careless either.
It’s everything he’s not saying.
Frustration. Relief. Love so sharp it borders on unbearable.
You barely have time to react before you’re kissing him back, hands fisting in his shirt as he crowds you closer, like he needs to erase the distance between you.
“You’re impossible,” he murmurs against your lips.
“You love it,” you breathe back.
But his voice is softer now, warmer.
His kisses slow after a moment, losing their edge, turning into something deeper, steadier. His forehead presses against yours, breath uneven.
His thumb brushes lightly over the scar. This time, he doesn’t hesitate to touch it.
“…Don't ever do that to yourself again,” he says quietly.
You huff a small laugh. “Yes, sir.”
His gaze lifts to yours, searching, making sure you really understand.
You do, but you also don’t regret it.
Another exhale leaves him—half defeat, half acceptance.
“Gods, I love you,” he mutters, like it’s both a confession and a curse.
You smile, softer now. “I know.”
His lips find yours again.
This time, slower, gentler, but no less certain.
Because no matter how much you frustrate him, no matter how recklessly you choose to love, Xaden will always meet you there.
Even if it drives him completely mad.
The training ring at Basgiath is loud in the way only controlled violence can be—steel clashing, boots scraping, instructors barking corrections that sound suspiciously like threats.
Sweat-slick, breathing hard, pushing yourself through another round long after most of the others have dropped out.
Xaden’s been watching for a while now.
At first, it was casual—leaning against the edge of the ring, arms crossed, shadows lazily curling at his feet, smug pride as he watched his girl pummel men twice her size onto the mat.
Now his posture is different. Tighter. More alert.
Because you’re not just training now.
You’re driving yourself into the ground.
Your footwork falters for half a second—barely noticeable to anyone else, but not to him.
His voice cuts across the ring, low but sharp enough to carry.
You pivot, duck a strike, counter with more force than necessary—proving a point no one asked you to make.
Xaden exhales slowly through his nose.
He pushes off the wall and steps into the ring like he owns it (because, realistically, no one’s about to stop him), his presence alone enough to make your sparring partner hesitate.
“Session’s over,” he says flatly.
Your partner doesn’t even argue—just backs off immediately, offering you an apologetic look before escaping.
You straighten, wiping sweat from your brow, already annoyed. “I wasn’t finished.”
“You were over an hour ago."
“Fine,” he finishes for you, unimpressed. “Yes, I heard you. Still don’t believe you.”
You fold your arms. “You don’t get to just end my training because you feel like it.”
“And you don’t get to run yourself into injury because you’re too stubborn to stop.”
And then—you turn like you’re going to walk right past him and continue anyway.
It lasts exactly half a second, because suddenly the ground is gone.
You’re yanked clean off your feet, the world flipping upside down as he hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh absolutely nothing.
“You cannot just kidnap me mid-training!”
You squirm, smacking at his back. “Xaden Riorson, I swear to—put me down right now!”
“You’re being ridiculous!”
“And you’re being reckless.”
“You were about to pass out.”
You huff, twisting to try and slide off his shoulder, but his grip tightens around your thighs, locking you in place.
“I’d like to see you try.”
That was the wrong thing to say. You go very still for a second. And then you lean down and bite him.
“What the fuck—did you just—”
He actually stumbles a step before recovering, one hand coming back like he’s trying to decide whether to grab you or his dignity.
“You are unbelievable,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between outrage and—gods help him—laughter.
“Put me down and I won’t escalate.”
“Escalate?” he echoes. “You’ve already assaulted me.”
A laugh breaks out of him—low, disbelieving, completely unable to be contained.
And just like that, the tension snaps.
He finally lowers you back to your feet—but keeps a hand firmly on your waist the second you land, like he fully expects you to bolt.
“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head.
“You carried me like a sack of grain!”
Slow. Dangerous. Familiar.
“You know,” he says lightly, stepping closer, “most people would be afraid to do that.”
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, tugging you just a fraction closer. Not enough to trap you—just enough to remind you he could.
“You’re done for today,” he adds, softer now but no less firm.
You open your mouth to argue—
“But only because I’m tired. Not because you said so.”
“And if you ever pick me up like that again—”
“You’ll bite me again?” he interrupts, amused.
You tilt your head, considering. “…Probably.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s accepted his fate.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything. “Worth it.”
But the way his hand lingers at your waist, the way his gaze softens just slightly as he looks at you says everything.
The council chamber in Aretia is too loud.
Not in volume—no one dares raise their voice that much around Xaden—but in tension. In expectation. In the constant, relentless weight of decisions that never seem to end.
Maps are spread across the table. Reports stacked in uneven piles. Someone is talking—has been talking for a while now—about supply routes, about risk, about whether moving sooner would expose too many people.
And Xaden has had enough.
“That’s not the point,” one of the council members insists, tapping a finger against the map. “If we wait, we risk losing—”
“I said we’re not waiting.”
The words crack through the room like a whip.
The man across from him stiffens. “With all due respect, that’s not a decision you can make alone—”
“You think I want to make it alone?” His voice rises—not shouting, but close enough that it sends a ripple of unease through the room. “You think I enjoy this? Weighing which lives are worth risking and which aren’t?”
No one moves. No one breathes.
“Every time we hesitate, we lose people,” he continues, colder now, more dangerous. “Every delay costs us something. So unless you have a better solution than standing here questioning every call I make—”
“I’m just saying we should consider—”
“I have considered,” Xaden cuts in, the edge in his voice turning lethal. “More than you have, clearly.”
That lands harder than it should.
You see it—the flicker of hurt, quickly masked.
And that’s when you know.
This isn’t about the plan. This isn’t about the council. This is something else.
Xaden exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back—but it’s too late.
“I’m done with this,” he mutters.
Out of the chamber before anyone can respond.
Before anyone can push back. Before anyone can see too much.
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back. His stride is sharp, purposeful, like if he stops moving for even a second everything he’s holding in might spill out where people can see it.
By the time he reaches your shared room, the tension around him feels like a storm barely contained.
The door shuts harder than usual behind him.
He paces once. Twice. Hands dragging through his hair, breath uneven, shadows restless at his feet.
“This is pointless,” he mutters. “All of it. Sitting in there arguing in circles while people are—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I don’t have time for this.”
Still, you don’t interrupt.
Water begins to run in the adjoining bathing room, steam slowly curling into the air. You don’t look at him as you pass, don’t try to catch his eye, don’t try to fix anything.
Behind you, he’s still talking—words sharper now, frustration bleeding through.
“They second-guess every decision like they’re the ones who have to live with it. Like they’re the ones—” He exhales harshly. “Gods, I’m tired of it.”
You step back into the room then, crossing to him without a word.
Your hands go to the hem of his shirt.
He blinks, caught mid-sentence. “What are you—”
You pull it off him, just like that.
He huffs a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Seriously? Now?”
No response. You just shoot him a look.
Not soft. Not gentle. A look. The kind that says don’t argue with me right now.
“…I don’t have time for this,” he tries again, weaker this time.
You raise a brow. That’s it, that’s all it takes.
He exhales, long and resigned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Unbelievable,” he mutters—but he’s already letting you guide him toward the bathing room.
Reluctant, but compliant because it’s you.
The water is hot enough to make the air thick with steam.
He sinks into it with a quiet exhale, tension still clinging to him but starting—slowly—to loosen.
You kneel behind him, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Then he leans back into your touch, unable to help himself.
He's silent for a few moments, his mind still working overtime, frustration and tension still sitting on his shoulders.
“...I need to head back to the Assembly,” he murmurs.
You still don't say anything, you only make a disapproving noise. A noise that tells him to try it and see what happens.
Your fingers work slowly, methodically, easing the tension from his scalp, washing away the dust and sweat and stress of the day. He doesn’t say anything else for a while—doesn’t need to.
His eyes close. His breathing evens. The sharp edges of him dull, just enough.
When you finish, you press a light kiss to the back of his head and rise without a word, but the command is loud and clear.
He barely reacts at first—until—
The unmistakable sound of the door locking.
His eyes open immediately.
“…Did you just lock me in here?”
From the other side of the room, your voice drifts back, calm and entirely unapologetic.
“You do realise that won’t actually stop me.”
But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t get out
Because despite everything he knows what you’re doing.
And for once he lets you.
By the time you return, the room is quiet.
You help him out of the bath without ceremony, wrapping him in a towel, drying him off with the same quiet efficiency. He grumbles under his breath once or twice—but doesn’t resist or pull away.
You dress him in clean clothes, hands steady, movements practiced.
And then you guide him to the bed.
He gives you a look. “You’re not serious.”
You are. Completely. Deadly.
He exhales, somewhere between exasperated and defeated, but sits anyway.
You push him gently back against the pillows, tug the covers over him despite the fact that it’s far too early for sleep.
He lets you, because it’s easier than fighting it. Because some part of him—deep down—is too tired to argue anymore.
You disappear one last time.
And when you return you’re holding a plate. A very large slice of chocolate cake.
You place it in his hands.
Only then do you finally speak.
“…You locked me in our room, forced me into a bath, tucked me into bed, and now you’re feeding me dessert like I’m a misbehaving child.”
Then a quiet huff of laughter escapes him. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real bite to it anymore.
Just exhaustion and something softer.
Silence stretches between you—but it’s no longer heavy. No longer sharp.
You sit beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his, your hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.
“You don’t always have to hold it together,” you say softly.
He doesn’t respond straight away.
Just stares down at the plate in his hands for a moment.
You shift closer, your hand lifting to brush his hair back from his face, fingers lingering there, slow and gentle.
“I hope you know how much I admire you,” you say softly. “Not just for what you do—for everyone—but for how you carry it. The strength it takes… even when you’re tired.”
He stills slightly, listening.
“You don’t have to be unbreakable all the time,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Not with me. I’m here—for all of it. The good, the bad… the moments like today.” A small pause. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His jaw tightens faintly—not in resistance, but in emotion.
“…I know,” he says, rougher than before.
You smile softly, thumb brushing once along his temple. “Good. Because I need you to know that.”
He finishes the last bite of cake slower this time, like he’s not just eating—but coming back.
When the plate is empty, you take it from him, setting it aside and before you can even fully turn back, his hand catches your wrist.
You don’t resist as he pulls you toward him, guiding you down into the bed, his arm wrapping tightly around you as he settles back against the pillows, bringing you with him like it’s instinct.
You go easily, fitting against him, your head tucked beneath his chin.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“…Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low, close to your ear.
You hum softly in response, your hand resting over his chest.
Your chest warms instantly.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
His hold on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“We’ll get through this,” you add gently. “Like we always do.”
A slow exhale leaves him.
And this time he believes it.
Because you’re here. Because you always are.
Gods, what did he do to deserve a girl like you.