Chapter Text
Now she looks at him.
Her gaze drifts over his face, slowly, so slowly, as if she hasn’t seen him before, not really. And there arethings that are new, for her anyway:
New lines around his eyes and mouth.
The grey sprinkled through his hair and beard.
(And though they’ve seen each other at work almost every day since they broke up, she didn’t look at him, not like before, not the way she used to, and why would she? Oh, she did on Valentine’s Day, held his gaze as he slowly moved above, inside her, and it would have shattered something in him if she hadn’t. But even so, he could feel it was different; she held back, didn’t allow herself to fall into him, and into the connection they still shared. On April Fool’s it was different, more playful; they were closer then. But as her gaze lingered on him, appreciated him, there was only an echo of that tenderness, that openness. Because while they were closer, he wasn’t hers, just like she still wasn’t his, and maybe she needed to remind herself of that too despite the ‘hall pass’.)
It's there now: the openness and the tenderness.
I love you.
I love you too.
Warmth floods his body at the memory. It starts in his toes and rushes up and up and up before settling in his chest.
Lucy tilts her head, frowning, just a little.
“What?”
“You never smiled like this before.”
“I know.”
And it’s true. He didn’t. Couldn’t. But he can now. Not just because he finally, finally has her back, but because he’s able to access the full depth of his feelings—and he knows he would never have gotten here without her. She healed him, totally and completely, made him realise that there’s more. That there could be more, even for him.
A smile of her own curves her mouth. “I love it.” She trails her finger along his bottom lip. “I love you.”
(She said it before, and she doesn’t really have to say the words for him to know. He never questioned her love for him, not after almost dying in a wildfire last spring. But he also knows that love sometimes isn’t enough. She could be in love with him and still choose not to be with him. But hearing her say it—then at the port and now in his home—means that she does choose to be with him: that she still wants him, even after everything he put her through.)
She kisses him then. She brushes her mouth over his, once, twice, then lingers, pressing her full lips softly against his before they part. She pushes her tongue against his lips, tentatively almost, but maybe it’s meant to tease; and every brief flick of her tongue makes his heart jump. Thud. And thud. And thud. And every beat makes him throb: a slow, steady pulse. The kiss makes him breathless, but he’s torn; he doesn’t want to pull away, not even to breathe: her tongue sweeps through his mouth, pressing against his own and sliding over his teeth. But in the end, and with a frustrated groan, he has to—and he feels her mouth curve into a smile.
(There are many things he missed about being physically intimate with her. The more tangible ones: feeling her lips, her hands and her skin on his, the way she responds to his touch and the way he responds to hers. But mostly their dynamic, which he’s never had with anyone, not quite like this anyway. Because they can be both tender with each other and rough, playful and serious, teasing and passionate. She trusts him and he trusts her, and she somehow speaks to a side of him that’s happy to explore anything and everything. With her. Because he’s never loved a woman the way he loves Lucy. And maybe it’s sappy, but he realised that for him it really does matter whether he has feelings for the women he’s intimate with, and how deep those feelings run.)
Slowly, she trails her hands down his front, no hesitation; she presses her palms firmly against his chest. Mine,that touch says. Mine. No uncertainty this time, no maybes. For a moment her hand lingers over his heart, fingers spread. It skips a beat, literally, and he feels her surprised and delighted exhale in his mouth. He shrugs, weirdly embarrassed, even though he knows he has no reason to be.
(“I like this softer version of you,” she told him once, months and months and months ago. “I’m not soft,” he scoffed playfully, but he knew even then that for her he is, not as much maybe as he is now, but—yes. He is. And he doesn’t mind at all, because he’s discovered that there’s a certain freedom in being vulnerable and softwith the woman you love. In being able to be those things—in not having to be strong, in not shouldering everything alone the way he’s always done, in not ever only giving. And that was a hard thing for him to learn: that he was deserving of those things.)
His shirt comes off in a practiced motion: Lucy slides it all the way up his chest, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside. She wraps her hand around his neck, rests the other on his shoulder, and for a moment her eyes remain in his face, hold his gaze, that smile still playing on her lips. Then, predictably, they dip.
The way she’s looking at him feels intimate in its own way: like she’s not just looking at him but inside him. Heavy heat starts crawling up his spine; he throbs visibly beneath his jeans, and even though Tim can’t see her face, he knows she’s smiling. She has a way of smiling with her whole body—or maybe he just knows her too well. Slowly, she lets her hands drift down his chest, lower and lower and lower, muscles locking under her touch in anticipation of a much more intimate touch: her hand wrapped around his erection, tight, holding him to the moment. His mouth goes dry; he licks over his lips as he watches her hands travel lower. Then they linger on the waistband of his jeans, her thumb on the metal button. He draws a ragged breath, holding himself very still, his mind already a step ahead; he imagines the soft pop of the button, the waistband giving way and freeing his erection that’s almost painful now—and he imagines the first delicate touch of her hand as she closes her fingers around him.
He exhales in a slow and very measured breath. Nerve endings sizzle as pressure starts building at the base of his spine. She hasn’t even touched him yet, not really; and he’s already halfway gone. She looks up then, a teasing glint in her eyes, so of course he has to roll his as he brings his arms around her: one hand resting gently on her waist, the other slowly moving up her back and then to her shoulder. His grip on her waist tightens, and he pulls her in the same moment he lowers his head for another kiss, her breasts flush with his naked chest, his skin starting to tingle where she presses into him.
Pop.
He exhales sharply, surprised. The zipper softly hisses open, and his jeans come loose. She used to tease him endlessly about it (and he can’t wait to hear her tease him about it again): that he seems to have a thing for her hair because he likes to bury his hand in it whenever he needs something to hold on to, to ground himself. He does so now too, and he truly does have a strange weakness for it and how it feels in his grasp and against his skin: so soft and silky and oddly sensual.
She drags his jeans over his hips along with his boxers and down his thighs. His eyes snap down; his erection springs free, sliding against her stomach and leaving a subtle trail of arousal on her skin. He watches as she slowly pulls them down his legs, then drops to her knees to take them off, one hand resting against his thigh for balance. When she looks up to meet his gaze, she’s smiling softly. She closes her fist around his length without ever getting up and—
Oh.
His heartbeat instantly speeds up, thrumming madly inside his ribcage, and he has to force himself to take a slow, deep breath, and then another one. There’s something powerful and primal about this—knowing she’s about to give him pleasure this way, holding him in her hand, literally, and in her mouth. She holds his gaze as she runs her hand down his length, her grip firm, just shy of too hard and perfect, and then back up to swirl her thumb around his sensitive tip. A jolt rushes through his entire body at the brief touch, his hips jerking toward her of their own accord. Her smile widens—and then she closes her mouth around him.
He closes his eyes at the first lick of her tongue, his free hand shooting out to steady himself against the window. The other remains laced into her hair, gently and carefully, always gently and carefully, but he can’t make himself let go. A slow breath and another one. He forces his eyes back open because he wants to see. But it takes him a moment to focus, and his gaze trails over the backyard, unseeing. Another breath—he looks down.
Weirdly, his attention is caught by how the light glints in Lucy’s hair as she slowly moves her head, revealing hidden colours. It’s mesmerising, and he has the vague thought of telling her, but the words are eluding him, and he’s soon distracted: by watching her drag her mouth up and down his length—and at the same time feeling the sheer heat and wetness of it. It feels incredible.
But it’s also almost too much. Maybe because he’s already so wound up from going down on her. Maybe because it’s been a while since she did this for him and his body can’t handle the rush of sensation after all this time. He squeezes his eyes shut now, cutting off the gorgeous, gorgeous vision of seeing the tight seal of her lips around his length. He doesn’t want this to end. Not yet. And God—he could ask her to slow down. Ask her to stop.
But he doesn’t want that either.
She dips her head, her mouth suddenly engulfing almost the entirety of him, her nose brushing lightly against his stomach and his tip nudging the back of her throat.
His fragile hold on himself shatters.
He comes into her mouth with a sudden pulse, a low groan making it past his lips. He drags his eyes open by sheer force of will, looks at her just in time to see her swallow. He sucks down a breath, arm braced against the window for support because, God—seeing her like this makes his knees grow weak.
She lets him slide out of her mouth then and gets to her feet, looping her arms around him, hands running up and down his back in a slow, soothing motion. She presses her cheek against his, then turns her head, just slightly, to first kiss the corner of his mouth and then his lips; he can taste himself, salty, a little bitter. He lets himself sink into her embrace, his breathing gradually slowing down, both spent, at least for the moment, and still buzzing because…
“You’re moving in with me,” he murmurs.
She smiles against his mouth. “Not if you collapse on me and crush me to death.”
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”
“But you love me anyway.”
Warmth spreads through him at how easily she says the words now. “I do.” Then he pushes away from the glass and looks at her: the pink flush in her cheeks, her red lips, her hair slightly dishevelled.
Tim smiles—and then he takes her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.