How cold is the river water? How long can one really survive, immersed as we are? Does Jael have more time than I do, even if I'm working twice as hard?

I don't have the answers to these questions. I just know that my limbs are going numb. Strong swimmer or not, it won't matter much longer, who's the better swimmer. Naked or soaking wet, finding shelter won't be any less deadly. We need to save some time and strength for that, too.

At the first sign of settlement, I give my stroke a final push. It's not a long strip of housing. When half of it goes by and we're still caught in the flow, I let go of Jael's chest and grab for his hand. And I miss, god damnit. The current is overpowering. My hands are pretty much useless. And the backpack is adding a lot of drag.

I'm forced to turn back and swim for him in the wrong direction. He's trying to meet me halfway, but he takes a few treacherous dunks below. It's a very real fear that he won't resurface. Then comes a fear that's worse—we'll both lose all mobility and drown or die of hypothermia.

One worry at a time. He goes under and I plunge, too. Underneath the surface, I finally reacquire him, my arms hooked around his shoulders.

We surface for a breath. He's coughing up water, and at least he succeeds.

"Grab on to one ankle and kick like hell," I tell him once I hear his lungs heaving in a rhythm again.

I slowly release him and flip over. We slide apart. His hands drag down one leg, and he manages to take hold.

As soon as he's secure, I ratchet up my efforts, face in the water, and get going, full crawl stroke—two arms and one leg—and decent kicks from Jael. I take as few breaths as possible, and at long last, we get to a place where we're just a few feet from shore. There's a steep drop off, but eventually, there's muck beneath my feet and I get a grip on some long grass just outside of the water.

Jael uses his hands to climb up my body. He struggles to find traction with me in his way and fumbles for a good handle on anything stable other than me. When he lets go of my hips, he loses his balance and floats further downstream.

Then, a few yards off, he catches a tree root. He plants his legs on ground that must be solid, because, with a jump and his impressive upper-arm strength, he pops out of the water, lifting his hips to the grassy ledge, a few feet above the water. From there, it's an easy climb out for him. I try to do the same. And fail. I'm too short. Too tired. Too cold.

Few as they are, the seconds that tick by, those he uses to walk over and offer me his hand, are long and loaded. He lifts me to a point I can get my knees up. All the while, I'm pinching my eyes shut. There's an orange sliver on the horizon. I wouldn't call it dark anymore. His clothing is long gone. Everything in my backpack is probably soaking wet. The secrets between us are diminishing the longer we travel together, but there are still a noteworthy few, and I can't face them right now in any context.

It's a strange sensation—being so anxious that I can't see straight, and at the same time, numb, from head to toe, to fingertips.  

Our awkward positioning is fortunately brief. Jay continues to help me to my feet. They may be beneath me, but I still stumble into him, his hands cradling my elbows for support, and I get a face full of chest, nonetheless.

"It's the hypothermia setting in." he tells me, holding me close for a few seconds.

He feels so much warmer than I do, and I don't want him to let go. We certainly can't stay here, though. We're too exposed and have never needed shelter more desperately. 

"I guess," I reply, slurring. Even my tongue seems fuzzy and thick.

He takes the backpack from me, props me against a tree. With an urgency that seems unproductive, he locates my windbreaker. After shaking off the excess water and wringing it out with a ferocity that comes across as comically supernatural, he helps me get it on.

"Wear as little as possible." He helps me smooth out the damp wrinkles. "Once my skin is dry, I'll change back and should be fine. You, on the other hand..."

Won't last very long...

No one has to say it. It would be words wasted and we're low on time as it is.

"Keep it unzipped, and stay as close to my fur as possible," he ends things and then I'm sluggishly climbing on top of a wolf body, and following his instructions, as much as I'm capable, fighting for consciousness.

As far as I can tell, Jael veers toward the small, riverside community we passed. I don't know what he hopes to find or intends to do. The houses are not what I'd call huge, but they're waterfront in Virginia. Owning one would be a luxury that few could afford. If any of them happen to be unoccupied, they'd likely have security systems.

Jay will undoubtedly break in somewhere anyway, but just like everything else, every action has consequences. The more desperate we get, the more disastrous they could potentially become.

We reach a gravel road. I'm placed with human hands into an open car without knowing why. It's warmer here, out of the wind, but it's no long-term solution.

Jael says something to me that I have trouble interpreting, and he doesn't join me. In a shivering little ball, my head against the window, I watch the wolf race off, and I lose sight of him in the early morning fog. 

After a few slow blinks, I close my eyes. I can't help it, even though I have a feeling, if I don't keep trying, I may never open them again.

***

I wake up in an actual bed—king sized, with decent sheets—and I'm probably underneath every extra blanket in the house. Or is it a cabin?

It's something like that. And I have the impression that no one is home and won't be anytime soon. For that, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Sitting up, I rake my fingers through my hair. It's about as tangled as you'd expect for someone with long hair, no brush, and a life on the run. Almost dry, except by my scalp, it leads me to believe that I've been here for a while. At least an hour or two.

I'm also naked. Again. My wet clothes are draped over a stiff, formal looking armchair. Fortunately, there's a velvety, button-up pajama top at the foot of the bed, placed where I can't miss it. While I'm still alone, I don't hesitate to get it on. It's a women's size large. As long as I'm standing or the shirt is tugged down, it's like a short dress.

Still, this whole naked-in-a-strange-bed thing keeps happening to me, and my memory of it, once again, is a dark void. In this case, I can't recall a single detail after I was deposited in that open car. Even that seems distant and dreamlike. It doesn't concern me, though, not as much as it should. Not as much as my last instance. I trust this supernatural male, and Prue isn't in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity to humiliate me.

Jael would do what's best for me, or at least what he thinks is best for me. He may not always be right, but I don't question his intentions.

I can't claim that has always been the case. He's the reason I'm in this predicament, but he's also my only hope of getting out of it, and has proven, time and again, that he's going to see this through to the bitter end. Or freedom. Whatever that looks like from here, and anything it takes to maintain. Normal is out, so, the next step is to discuss our options, and that's assuming we ever find a calm, quiet moment.

Halfway dressed, I lean back into the pillows and examine my surroundings.

The shades are all closed, but I see strong evidence of daylight. The furniture is solid wood, but it's bland and utilitarian. Although the room is decorated and has a theme—American history, Civil War in particular—there are no personal touches—pictures or family keepsakes—which leads me to believe this is a vacation rental or a summer home. Judging by the dust, it doesn't get used or tended to very often at this time of year.

Jael lucked out on this one, and I worry about the catch. From what we've experienced, and from what life tends to bestow upon us in general, there's dark and light, and like paint, when you mix them together, white gets obliterated, even in larger portions.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. I'm already concerned. If he's not here, where did he go and what kind of trouble did he encounter? It's broad daylight. With our pursuers and their collective list of powers, and the ransom money being offered, "safety" is nearly impossible to come by. Still, it's all relative, and I presume we'd both be safer indoors at this hour.

"Jael," I croak out.

I don't know the exact size of the house, but it doesn't feel large. If he was anywhere nearby, he'd probably hear me.

It wouldn't be wise to shout, so I leave it at that. He must not be here.

Although I try to rest, I won't be able to sleep, knowing he's still out there.

Minutes go by, and they're torture. It's too early to get really worked up, but I begin a plan that doesn't include him. Neighbors. Police. I'd have to put my faith in humanity. They'd send me "home," and that's the best-case scenario.

If I was at a two in terms of life progress at the start of this dark spell, living with my parents would put me back at zero. Or worse. And that wouldn't even be the most depressing reality. He'd be gone to me...

I wind up with tears in my eyes. Again. And that's precisely when I hear movement downstairs. It's tentative on the creaky floorboards, but it's nothing overly stealth. I have plenty of reasons to cry, but not as many as I thought. It helps me gain some semblance of control.

I'm wiping my eyes dry when Jael pops in and looks surprised—probably that I'm up—and then concerned when he sees my face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I say, sniffling in the last of my distress. "Just overwhelmed."

He's shirtless, and that's always a sight to see, but the pants catch my eye this time. They rouse a smile that I should but can't control.

I've located the lower half of the pajama set. The pants are flannel—princess-pink and light gray. Being a women's size large, they fit comfortably around his toned waist but have no room for his specific anatomy, and they only go down to his shins. If he wasn't so freakin' hot and well-equipped, he'd look ridiculous.

He'd look better without them, says the devil on my shoulder, and I have to agree.

Clothing that is both suitable and dry isn't always attainable for us. It's cute that he holds back when he can, but my memory is long. The pants are just a courtesy at this point.

At my amusement, his pale cheekbones flush with color and the shrug is no fix. "Beggars can't be choosy. There was a brand-new pajama set in the bottom drawer. It's all I could find, though."

When I sit up a little straighter, my oversized, matching gray top slides off my shoulder. And that, after all we've seen and done, catches his eye. He becomes noticeably tense.

"I hate to sound like the jealous girlfriend type, but where have you been?" I correct my collar, and he appears to shake some of it off. "I was actually worried, you know."

"Oh, uh, sorry," he tags on. "I should have left a note." He runs a hand over the dark stubble at his jawline while he seems to consider his location, awkward and in the middle of the floor, and a possible solution. His eyes dart to the chair, covered in my wet clothing, and then skim toward the bed. He doesn't let himself get attached to this idea, and his gaze flutters toward the wall, perhaps looking for an empty section to lean upon without frames or furniture. Overall, I think he comes up short. He crosses his arms over his bare chest and shifts his weight instead. "I was trying to cover our tracks as best I could. Even if it rains—and I'm hoping those clouds pan out..." He bobs his nose at the shaded window and the gray daylight sifting through. "There's no guarantee, especially if they're familiar with us."

"Well, is it good enough? At least for now?" I throw back the covers and pat the side of the bed next to my bare legs, crossed at the ankle. "How'd we even get in this place? Did you have to break anything?"

His eyes widen and eyebrows lift for a beat, but then he blows out a breath and bends to the suggestion, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He shifts toward me. We're more or less face-to-face.

"It's an Airbnb," he tells me. "I tracked a faint human scent. Led me right to the key in the back. There are door cameras, so I cut the power and Wi-Fi. Hopefully we have a little time before the owner gets too suspicious. To be honest, they're the least of our problems."

"I know," I reply feebly, suddenly nervous myself, but I do what I set out to do as soon as I invited him over. Before that, really. As soon as I realized I was in a real bed and disaster wasn't imminent. Or, in all honesty, the moment we first laid eyes on each other. Maybe we weren't each other's "type," but something clicked for me, and a change seemed necessary, desirable, somewhat inevitable.

I can't claim that feeling was always mutual. It's not something we ever discussed. There's as much evidence for it as there is against it. Wasn't he just following orders? And trying to please his girlfriend?

I lightly stroke his cheek with the backs of my fingernails. He pinches his eyes shut, the angst and desire, apparently at war. My goal is to put some of that conflict to rest . . . for us both.

And with my hand cupping his ear, I lean forward. Stretch up. Pull him slightly to me. And kiss him. Once. Twice. Sweet and chaste, like we're young and still innocent, and this is our first time trying it. Then I pull away, leaving him reeling and out of breath, even though we didn't do anything physically taxing yet.

His hand has already wandered. It's high on my leg, but he removes it and balls it into a fist.

It's frustrating. I know. As much as I want to move on, and it takes more strength and willpower to stop than to go, there's something unwieldy in the way, and I can't just go around it. It would be unconscionable, and while I still have one—a working conscience—I should listen to it. "I have a question," I let him know, resting my forehead on his.

"Uh-huh," he concedes, placing that shaky hand on my neck and shoulder. "I'm guessing our future together is dependent upon my answer? And if it isn't both sincere and satisfying, I'll be sleeping on the floor?"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. It's like you've been preparing for this for a while."

He grazes my neck up to my jaw and strokes my cheek with his thumb. "I have."

Though I kiss the pad of his thumb, I don't let myself get carried away. "Then you know what I'm going to ask."

"Not exactly." His hand drifts off my face and his stormy eyes fill with apprehension.

I scoot over a little. "All right, then..." I pat the bed again and he shifts into the spot I left for him. "I'll just say it. Why me? Why did you get me involved?"

He reclines against the headboard and pillows, and I lean into the arm he offers. "What Ivy asks for, she usually gets," he informs me, unnecessarily. It's common knowledge at this point. "She was looking for a virgin. Didn't go into any detail about why..."

"You can blame Ivy all you want," I cut in, going rigid. His response may be sincere, but it certainly isn't satisfying. "But, out of all the girls you could have picked, you picked me. I feel like, if you had any respect or affection for me whatsoever, you would have told me to run for the hills. You had to know that Ivy was just using you to do her dirty work, and it was all so much dirtier than she was letting on. It's not as if anyone can be that manipulative without tons of practice. You had plenty of time to pick up on that and warn me. You just..."

"I was selfish," he cuts in. "Ivy told me to protect you, and it was something I would have done anyway. Something I wanted to do anyway." His hand drifts up my bare hip. A rogue pinkie skims through my bikini line. When his hand settles at my waist, he gives it a tiny squeeze. "Ted didn't help the situation. And seeing you, hurt and vulnerable. Scared. It was a stab to the heart. I do actually have one."

"I wish I could say I never had any doubt, but..." I shudder and stop. Things got dark in that house in ways I'd rather not describe. Ever. Jael can at least fill in the blanks, better than anyone. I find some peace knowing that he won't ever pressure me for a full account.

"I understand," he dolefully admits. "And I want you to understand that I felt like I was doing more good than harm that first night. Ivy claimed that she only needed a blood sample from you. She's an opportunist, yes, but I never took her to be cruel enough to torture and kill someone who didn't deserve it. Not at the time. I was a compliant boyfriend until things got . . . confusing. I never saw that side of her until it was clear that she was jealous of you and stressed out—the night I called the relationship quits. But, initially, I agreed to her terms. To keep my job and to stay in her good graces. I should have known better, but I was immediately distracted. I never met someone as kind, trusting, straight-forward . . . beautiful..."

"I assume you're talking about me now?" I shift to my side and start getting a little handsy too, low on his stomach.

He chuckles airily and places a kiss on my head that lingers, like he's borrowing warmth. "Yes, and . . . the way Ivy was acting . . . the way they were all acting. It was twisting my gut in knots. Without being told, I knew this was more disturbing and larger in scale than they were letting on. It was not what I signed on for, but I needed time. To get to the bottom of things. To come up with a plan based on those results. It would have been grim from the start no matter what. And, well, 'run away with me and face unthinkable danger' would have sounded crazy unless you loved me, too. Unfortunately, the hourglass ran out of sand before I had my shit together. Before I had a chance or the courage to explain this to you and let you choose. It's no excuse, but I wasn't aware of Ivy's true intentions until after I heard you scream..." He trails off with a deep sigh. "I hope that answers your question."

"It does." I trace a finger up his chest and then rest my hand over his heart.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he goes on, visibly disturbed. His heartrate even spikes. "I wish I'd had the willpower to let you go. I wish there was more I could do to make this fair to you and easier from here. Nothing about this life is good enough for you, and I will never forgive myself for that."

"For what it's worth, I forgive you." I lift myself up on my arm and stare into his mournful gaze. "I hope that helps turn a never into a someday soon. You deserve to be happy, and you've been denied that for so long. It's no wonder things were so extreme and so reckless between us, and so early on. I can't deny that I was in a similar place. I took chances I shouldn't have. Always seemed to ignore the red flags and wait too long. I won't let you assume all the blame just because your former associates are slightly more vicious than mine."

He wipes his eyes dry. "You are too good for me."

It takes a sharp exhale to stifle my nerves, those that seem to be working against my next move. "I know." I slide a leg over his torso and rest my nude bottom half low on his abdomen.

He's all eyes, and there's a little fire in them, just with that. To complete the gesture, I peel off my roomy, stolen pajama shirt, and I earn myself his full attention.

His chest bolts upright and our upper bodies collide. His lips and hands become as voracious as his gaze just was, like he's starving and eager to sample it all, frantically and in no particular order.

When he flips me onto my back and settles between my legs, our erratic rhythm smooths out. We find our focus—mouth to mouth for a while. The depth and desire build from there and put those pesky, counterproductive nerves to rest.

He seems to notice that change in me, because he tapers the kiss off with a few light pecks, and then gives himself some space to gauge my reaction. Things are going favorably, and I drive the point home by going to work on the waistband of those ugly, ill-fitting pants with my hands and feet. They just don't want to come off around that.

"What's your pleasure?" he asks me when I finally break him loose, both of us then kicking the pants down to his ankles. "Anything you want. . ."

I weave my hands into the back of his hair while I think about it. "What would you ask for if you were me?"

He lifts an eyebrow in response, and then trails his mouth down my chest and stomach. I do my best to relax, hard as that may be, and he disappears below the sheets.

With the tip of his tongue, he makes immediate contact with that somewhat virginal flesh. He drags it up and surprises me with a firm nudge right where it gives me a jolt of pleasure. I say somewhat because a couple of other boys have tried to arouse me by various ineffective means. And they failed miserably on every occasion. I've tried with my own hand a few times, to see if it "worked," once a friend clued me in that it was possible without a boy. But I failed at that, too. As soon as an extremity goes below my waistband—and no, it has never been a penis, though not for any lack of pushing and prying in one way or another—I always seem to get interrupted, sometimes by just the fear or frustration.

There was one mortifying occasion where I was caught with my "pants down," so to say, or my skirt was over my head, if I'm being precise. And I was snagged by that someone who won't ever forget or let me forget. I think you know by now who I'm referring to. Amos, the root of all suffering. What's worse, I wasn't alone, it wasn't my idea, I wasn't having any fun, and it was about as risqué as "sex" can get without actually doing the deed.

There were fingers in so many of my orifices that it felt like a medical exam. While I was just bent over, taking it, my underwear around my ankles, in the church broom closet of all places, Micah—the boy with the fat, dry, writhing fingers—was still fully dressed and only had a squat little hard-on to show for it. This was what "we" settled on when I refused to suck that stump of his.

It was all too much, too soon, and it didn't take me long to vow, never again, and that's about the time the door flew open anyway. Micah jetted out of there like he was on fire and obviously didn't defend me or turn back when I was being kept behind that closed door, doing a lot more than moaning with discomfort. He did end up apologizing, but only to Amos. He had nothing else to say to me, not even goodbye, and before this all occurred, I genuinely liked him. Even more irritating, he's patched things up with Amos, has seen God and all that, and they're currently close. This better man is now engaged to someone else and is allegedly patient and kind.

It's a long story for another day, and not one I should be dwelling on when I should be relaxing and concentrating on the sensation. Not all sex is evil and ends poorly, even if my past suggests otherwise.

Jael certainly has a way of distracting me from my issues . . . and there are many. I have no doubt he's had a lot of practice.

As he swirls and slithers through the fold in a way that is about as holy and unholy as an act can be, I try not to think of that either—what he had to do to keep Ivy content for as long as he did. Nine months. None of my relationships have ever come close to that.

Ivy and I couldn't be more different, and I guess confidence, control, and experience aren't everything. If that kept him satisfied, he wouldn't have his head between my legs right now. He'd be between hers, and I'd be dead...

I buck up to kill that thought too, and it seems to work. I lift to my elbows, drag my knees farther up and out, and then let my head hang back as I try to relax again. But I can't seem to keep my body still or slack, or my mouth shut. He's teasing out a breathing pattern I've never had and noises I've never had the desire or capacity to emit.

Jael kicks it up a few notches. And I squeeze every muscle in anticipation. I think I'm almost "there"—whatever that entails. I hold my breath. I don't want to move at all. As far as I can tell, there's not a single stroke out of place, and I'm too greedy and aroused to let him wander by even a millimeter.

If I'm at the brink of a climax, I hang there for a while, but I just can't tumble over. I need to breathe. My lungs start heaving and the chance seems lost.

He catches on and breaks away, giving me a moment. Then, slower and softer, his tongue wanders through the entire area. Long, wet strokes, both sides. Then he circles and zags through the opening. His tongue pushes in, and sweeps upward, once, twice, a few times, and it kindles a new curiosity—what he'll feel like when he stretches those slippery walls and glides all the way in.

I've only seen a few penises up close, and they were far from impressive. Even Ted's was surprisingly feeble-looking for a linebacker, and his mode of compensation would have been anger, aggression, and kink. Jael's, however, has always dangled there, like an overripe vegetable—smooth, sleek, luscious. It can catch my eye from twenty feet away, even in the dark, and that's unaroused. Sex would be as it should be. He wouldn't need any "tricks" to get a positive reaction out of me.

"I want you," I murmur.

His head surfaces by mine. He seems to get the message but looks perplexed. Concerned, maybe. Perhaps wondering how to go about it.

Worried he might back out or lose steam, I roll us both over, so that I'm on top. And right away, I begin working the tip of his penis—it's all I think I can manage right now—into the wet, throbbing, but stubbornly small opening.

He gasps at the warmth of the first touch. And then I use my weight, his unwavering rigidity, and the sway of my hips to work him further inside.

I feel so full that a gasp pops out, and I've only consumed about half. There's a sting and a throbbing ache, but pleasure still seems to overcome that at this depth.

All the signs tell me it's a solid start for him, too. His breathing is shaky and erratic. Every muscle seems tense. I think he's holding back, and it seems to take more thought and energy than just going for it, hard and all the way. His eyes, when they're not pinched shut, are drinking me in. I lean forward, he lurches up to meet me halfway, and our lips collide, and there, his thirst gets quenched for a few seconds. And while this is all going on, back and forth, in and out, his fingertips stroke down the sides of my breasts. They mirror each other, moving down my sides, and then separate. One hand squeezes my behind, his fingertips just inside the crack, and the other slides between us. He dips a thumb into the top of my fold and begins massaging. Our combined motion quickly lifts me back to the base of that daunting peak.

I close my eyes, grind against him, moaning softly, almost there again. I think. Time and again. More, more, more. But there's no improvement. I gasp in frustration, shake my head, and then try harder. Is this as good as it gets? Or is there some other level?

Whatever the problem is, Jael intends to get me past it. He rolls me onto my back and thrusts inside of me, past the barrier that was giving me trouble. A slight shriek slips away from me.

At that, he retreats and tries again, going slower. There's pressure, pleasure, pain. The entire canal gets stretched to capacity, and at a well-timed deep breath and firm thrust, he's fully inside me. And once we've both adjusted to that, he picks up the pace. Quadruples the enthusiasm. At no point has his attraction to me, his desire to please and be pleased, been more apparent.

He drives any noise or clutter in my brain to the very back of it. It's not gone but it seems compact and contained. Quiet, like a whisper for a change.

I close my eyes and seem to float back to my previous high. He's so far inside of me, I won't ever be the same.

He's doing all the work and I'm just hovering here—calm, at peace, happy. Then, something stirs, builds, heightens abruptly. I bite my lower lip, hold back a breath, and . . . I pop. Officially, I guess. And it's such a relief that I'm normal and capable of this. I've had such deep-seeded fears and doubts, and now they're being sucked out of me, and the opposite is rushing in to fill the space. It's beauty. It's confidence. It's absolute delight.

While I'm experiencing a heaven on earth that makes everything else seem small and distant, Jael pours the rest of his desire into me in one, decisive, mind-blowing thrust.

He lingers inside of me and keeps pumping, still impressively robust and rigid for a while. It seems superhuman, all things considered—how tired he probably is, how much work that was, and what little food we've consumed. And he keeps grinding his hips into me while I continue to moan and twitch with every subtle movement.

When my eyes flutter open, my body finally at rest, he pulls out of me and tries kissing me, but can't really do it justice around his smile. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

"Or done?" I ask him while his skilled, resourceful mouth wanders to my neck, making me wonder what the recovery time will be. He's anything but ordinary, and I'm hooked, body and mind. And what does that mean? Ten? Twenty minutes? An hour? We covered a lot of ground, but there's still so much more to try.

"Absolutely," he confirms, bounding out of bed.

No more than a step later, he turns back and takes me in with his eyes. I'm only halfway under the covers, probably still flushed, and obviously disappointed that he's leaving so soon. He leans down, gives me a quick but deep kiss with tongue, takes a playful nip of one breast, and then strokes a strand of my hair behind my ear. "I'll be right back."

"You promise?" I grab for his hand.

He nods and I belatedly let go of him.

While he shuffles into the cool, unheated cabin air, naked, and no longer timid or self-conscious about that, I watch all the muscles ripple from shoulders to calves. Our situation isn't sexy, but he is.

We are.

This success . . . it doesn't improve our odds for survival, but everything somehow feels so much more manageable.

With the image of him fresh in my mind, I roll to my other side and try to get comfortable. And within moments, the likelihood of round two starts to drift from the realm of possible. When Jael returns, I'm half asleep, but I don't let myself fall fully under until I'm encapsulated in his body warmth.

We both need this. Rest. Each other. Maybe we shouldn't check out so completely, but biology wins again, and that's okay, as long as Ivy and her underlings are still in the dark about us.

It's where they belong...