[Maddie’s POV]

Emily’s mouth is on mine the next moment, soft and insistent, and for once I’m not cataloging the mechanics. I pull back slightly, hands on her shoulders. “Hey,” I say quietly. “I need to say something before we—before this.”

She sits up slightly, concern flickering across her face—because of course she’s concerned for me. My chest aches. “Okay. What is it?”

“I know I’ve been stubborn. Coming out to my parents—losing them—it’s been harder than I thought. I keep thinking I should be fine by now…” I trail off, looking down on my hands, trying to be sincere and sound as apologetic as I feel.

Emily’s hands find mine, fingers lacing through. She squeezes them gently. “Maddie, you don’t have to be—”

“Let me finish,” I say softly. “I’ve been spiraling about whether I’m good enough, whether I deserve this.” I gesture between us. “Whether I deserve you. And I know that’s been hard on you.”

“You do deserve this,” Emily says fiercely, her eyes are shining with unshed tears when I look up. “You deserve everything.”

“I’m trying to believe that.” I squeeze her hands. “I’m trying to work through it. I just need you to know I’m trying.”

Emily pulls me closer, forehead against mine. “I know you are. And I’m not going anywhere. However long it takes.”

Something in my chest loosens. I nuzzle my nose against hers, and she chuckles. “You sure about that?”

“Completely sure.” She kisses me softly. “I love you. All of you. Including the stubborn parts.”

I laugh, and it feels genuine. “Even when I’m being impossible?”

“Especially then.” She grins. “Makes the sex more satisfying when you finally relax.” Her smile turns mischevious, and my stomach feels with warmth.

“Oh really?” I push her back onto the bed, watching her eyes darken. “Is that so?” I lick my lips, watching as she follows my movement with her eyes.

“Yeah.” Her hands slide under my shirt. “Really. Trust me on this.” This time when I kiss her, I’m present. Actually here. Her lips are soft, her tongue sliding against mine, and I feel it—the warmth, the want, the connection.

Her hands reach for the hem of my shirt and I catch her wrists, pressing them firmly against the mattress above her head. She makes a surprised sound, but when I pull back, her eyes are dark and wanting.

“Keep them there,” I say, and she nods, biting her lip. Good. This way I control the choreography, keep her focused on pleasure instead of trying to fix whatever she thinks is broken in me.

I kiss down her neck, brain running through the steps like a competition program. Collarbone, sternum, the soft skin between her breasts.

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