Author's Notes:

Elena arc, part 4 of 7. Kate comes to a decision.

Firstly, apologies for the very late update. I hit a few writer's block along the way.

Second, this chapter is under the M fic. I'm sorry for the lemons, but I felt the scenes wouldn't be as natural without them, given the characters' history and their current relationship.

Third, this chapter was HARD to write. Probably the hardest chapter I've written for this fic to date. I am very uncertain/insecure about it, because it deals with a host of emotions and almost conflicting thoughts, so please tell me if things worked or didn't.

Fourth, this fic will go on hiatus while I devote my time to things irl. Hopefully I will be back in a few months. Thank you for reading and reviewing!

I led him to the bedroom of my suite and climbed onto the soft cotton mattress. The night lamp was still on, and when he stepped into its soft glow, his thin form appeared to materialize out of darkness. He paused a little at the foot before climbing on to join me.

The bed was plenty big, and we occupied but a fraction of its space. He was freshly showered, smelling like soap and free summer air. I snuggled into him, dizzy with his arms and chest around me.

He brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. "I missed you."

"Me too." I said softly. "I'm sorry this took a week."

"I think we both needed that time."

"Maybe we did."

I kissed him. Slowly, he kissed back. Neither of us were in a hurry to stop, and despite ourselves, the kiss garnered steam.

It was easy to lose myself in his lips, especially when his arms tightened around me, and the long-absent thrill of giddiness jolted through my body. I couldn't stop my hands from snaking around his shoulder, or pressing at the back of his head to push him into me. He tasted like toothpaste and happiness and apology, and when I gripped a fistful of his hair, his fingers slid down to the small of my back. I was restless and full of want.

Half by accident I found the fabric belt of his robe and tugged the knot loose. With the front thus opened, a quick exploratory touch told me he was wearing only his briefs underneath. The glance of my finger on his smooth torso sent both of us trembling. I slid the robe off his shoulders and leaned forward to kiss the nook of his neck.

"I missed this," I whispered against his skin.

"Me too," he said, his own hands tracing the line of my waist. Then he snorted. "Wow. I can't even remember the last time we did this."

"What?" I asked innocently, kissing a trail to his shoulder. "You mean… this?" I gave him a nibble, hard enough to show in the morning.

"Ow," he said, but I could hear his smile. "Among other things, yes."

"Hmm." I locked eyes with him and, while he watched, dragged my tongue across his shoulders and down the center of his chest. He reddened adorably. "Can you imagine doing this in space?"

"Uh-um, in space?" he stammered, the effect of my display still evident. "Wouldn't that be… a bit messy?"

"Probably," I agreed. "I wish we'd given it a try, though. Too bad I was being chaperoned."

"As if a chaperone ever stopped you," he said, grinning. "Ms. Katherine de Vries, sleeping draught enthusiast!" he announced, in a bad imitation of Mr. Lunardi's booming voice. I tried to tickle him, but he laughed and hugged me close, pinning my arms between us.

It was a laugh I hadn't heard in a long time; teasing and open and carefree, as much a part of him as anything. I rejoiced in its pureness, like clear skies and morning walks. I'd forgotten how much I missed it, and pressed to him, I could hear every part of it reverberating inside me, echoing with me down to my bones. For an impossible moment, I was filled with his laughter, and all was right in the world.

But then the sound faded, and he sighed and kissed my forehead. I looked up, and found his eyes elsewhere. I didn't know how I knew — perhaps it was something in his absent gaze, or the way he held himself, or how he didn't hold me as tightly as before.

"You're thinking about her," I blurted.

It wasn't a question.

He froze. For a split second I thought he would look at me, but he didn't.

"I am," he said, almost too quiet to hear. I let the syllable hang between us, and counted my heartbeats.

One, two, five, ten.

Is he not going to say anything else?

Twenty.

He's afraid, I thought. Or maybe I was afraid.

Forty.

Say something. Anything.

Finally, after what seemed like a hundred heartbeats, he leaned in to kiss me. It wasn't completely expected, though instinct took over and I grabbed at his hair again. It was fervent, relentless, more desperation than kiss. I bit his lips, but he didn't pull away when I tasted that iron tang.

I lost track of my heartbeats.

When we broke apart, his lower lip had a spot of red. Even under the weak glow of the night lamp, his face seemed so adult that I felt a sudden urge to cry.

At that moment I realized my Matt was gone. My Matt, the one who joked around and teased me and surprised me. Now, here, this Matt was no longer my own, no longer content with just me and only me. Like Wendy returning from Neverland, he grew up.

He grew up the moment he picked up that bundle.

"I love you," he said.

"… I know," I whispered.

"She… she doesn't change that." He licked gingerly at the red spot.

"I know."

"Kate, I —"

"Do you love her?"

The instant those words rolled off my tongue, I knew he wasn't prepared for the question. Heavens, I wasn't prepared for his answer. Even after a week, the merest mention of her — just a pronoun, not even a name — had me desperate to void everything out of my head. I saw in my mind's eye, him holding her, his small smile… the way he'd looked at her like he wouldn't want anything else in the world.

And her, as well. Her toothless grin, her excited wriggle. Her clear giggle — that twinkling noise, almost like starlight, that repeated itself over and over in my brain. I wish I could hate her, but I could not… not when she shared his eyes.

Still, I held my breath. I knew what his response would be — what it had to be. In a way, I wanted something to drive home the stake, to finish the blow. I'd known this moment would come, after all.

"I don't know," he said.

The vibration of his voice went first to my lungs, then spread through the rest of me, almost as if I were the speaker. They made no sense to me. I lifted my head a little, almost peeking at him. He wasn't looking at me; in fact, his eyes weren't focused on anything in particular. I pressed my lips to his shoulder.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" I asked. My own voice was trapped by his skin, muffled and small.

"I just… don't," he said, and I felt that same hum spread through me.

I shook my head. "You don't have to pretend."

"I'm not," he said.

I shook my head again, still disbelieving. "But… I saw the way you looked. At her."

"I was overwhelmed," he said after a brief pause. "I didn't —"

"Didn't think she'd really be there?" I quipped.

He nodded, looking miserable. "I… it's weird, Kate. I've never — I can't — I can't explain it."

"You won't explain it," I said, unable to stem the dripping acrimony in my voice. "There's a difference."

He winced. "I don't want us to fight. I didn't come here to fight."

"Then stop lying to me."

"I'm not! Why do you —"

"Just admit it. You love her, Matt."

"And what if I say I don't?" he snapped. I jumped at the rare ferocity in his tone. "Will you believe me? Or do you believe only what you want to believe?" He paused for breath, but didn't give me time to respond. "A week ago I didn't know she exists, Kate. I'm still trying to understand how I feel about her, and all this, and what I want to do. I'm confused, and anxious, and afraid, so I don't need you making assumptions about who I love — because I love you, and right now that's the only truth I know."

I stared at him. I saw his flushed cheeks, heard his breath loud between us. A bone was lodged in my throat, tight and knotted. I couldn't remember the last time he'd raised his voice with me. It wasn't supposed to be like this; once again, by allowing my own silly feelings to dominate me, I'd hurt him. Hurt us.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. I cupped his face and kissed him. "I'm sorry, Matt."

He flinched at first, and his lips didn't soften until some seconds in, but then he kissed back, forceful and assertive. His hands were forceful as well, gripping me, pulling me to him. Anger fueled our desire, aided by the months of abstinence, and I missed the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach; that smothering sensation of wanting more, faster, drowning in a vortex of passion.

With the last shred of my will, I stopped him just before he was about to take off my knickers. He breathed out an incoherent moan of complaint.

"No, Matt," I panted. "Later. I want you to try. Describe it. Your feelings."

He broke away, his gaze dark and lidded and puzzled. A few breaths later the lust drained away.

"My feelings… about her?" he asked.

I nodded. "I want… to understand. I need to understand."

He eyed me almost warily. I stroked his arm and his flank, waiting for him to trust me. Slowly he relaxed.

"I'll try," he said flatly. "But I'm not good at, um, describing things."

"It's okay," I said. "This isn't a test."

He nodded and scrunched up his face the way he did when he was presented with a difficult problem. He took a few minutes to organize his thoughts.

"She's… mysterious," he said finally. "And strange… and surreal."

Those weren't adjectives I'd been anticipating. I blinked. He saw my expression and smiled a little.

"I'm still getting used to the idea of her being… from me," he clarified. "The idea that she's… a person. A real person, that I helped… create."

There was another pause before he continued.

"You keep saying I love her," he said, ignoring my wince, "and maybe I'm supposed to love her. But I haven't really… spent time with her. She's an entire different human being, Kate, and I… I barely know her. I had ten minutes to make up for Nadira's ten months. I was overwhelmed." He exhaled. "So, no… I don't think it's love."

"Then?" I asked, a small whisper.

"I'm not sure, but I do know — um."

"What, Matt?"

"I do know I want to protect her." He sounded like he wasn't entirely sure if he should've said it. He grasped my hand and looked at me, cautious, as if afraid I would explode. I felt a pang of something prick at me.

"I see," I said, and offered nothing else. I didn't hide the fact I was hurt. I knew what I wanted — I wanted him to comfort me, to console me, to reassure me. To say he was sorry. He'd always been sweet and considerate in this regard, so much so that I'd taken it for granted — he was usually the first to apologize, the first to soften after a fight, the first to initiate a cuddle.

He did none of those. He only furrowed his brows, parted his lips a sliver. I knew him well enough to see the turmoil in his eyes, the only clue to some kind of secret war inside him that I wasn't privy to. I didn't like a Matt I couldn't read, couldn't kiss, couldn't snuggle into. It scared me.

Finally, he raised his head.

"I want your permission," he said, grave and somber, his words subdued yet brimming with a nervous undercurrent. I didn't understand what he was asking, obviously, but like a premonition, immediately I knew. I knew my world had changed, and I couldn't possibly stop it.

We stared at each other. He inhaled, exhaled.

"I want your permission… to go see her."

Of course. After all that talk about him wanting to protect her… naturally he'd want to act on them. My mouth felt very dry. I tried to clear my throat, but all I got was an annoying itch that refused to dislodge.

"… to America?" I croaked out.

He hesitated. My hand was still threaded through his, and he squeezed.

"No," he said. "They're… in Lionsgate City."

"Lionsgate?" I was so surprised I temporarily snapped out of my trepidation. "But Nadira said she was going back to New Amsterdam!"

"She was," he said. "I asked her — them — to stay."

The sentence almost seemed to linger in the air between us, laden with too much meaning to be dismissed; too dangerous to be wielded lightly. Then it settled on me as an anvil striking ground, and smashed me open.

"You asked her… to stay? Last week…? And you didn't think to tell me?"

It wasn't as much a question as a cold front, and I was trembling with its force. The swift freeze of it punched through the room like a wintry draft you weren't ready for in April. Matt froze, like a fawn without its mother close by.

"Kate…" he said.

I snatched my hand away from his grip.

"Don't Kate me," I nearly snarled. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was trying to," he said weakly. "This past week, I kept wanting to, but you —"

"Me? You were the one who asked her in the first place!"

"I just —"

"What? You just what?"

"I — well — Nadira was about to leave, and I didn't know where she lived, and I just — " his voice cracked, "I didn't want it to be the last time I saw Ellie, alright?"

He was panting, his face flushed, and there was a desperation I couldn't recall seeing before in him, something which tugged at him from a place I couldn't reach.

He was my future husband, yet this was a side of him I'd never witnessed, a part of him I didn't dare push.

"… I thought her name was Elena," I said.

He gave me a look before he snorted. "I forgot, you don't know; Nadira calls her Ellie."

"Ah," I said.

He shook his head. "I didn't think you'd remember her name."

"It's a very pretty name."

He snorted again. When I tried to take his hand, he withdrew his, though a moment later he let me hold his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know how you must feel. I'm sorry it happened this way."

"… where are they staying?"

"I don't know. The Waldorf, maybe. She — Nadira — agreed to wait until we got back from the national tour."

"And… what? You'll see her, presumably."

He tensed, hesitating. Suddenly he kissed me. I gasped, so it wasn't a very good kiss, but he didn't care.

"If you'll allow it," he said, breath hot on my lips. "I won't lie; I want you to. But… but if you don't — " he drew back a few inches, visibly steeling himself — "then I won't go."

I couldn't look him in the eyes. I didn't want to be the one to decide — something of such magnitude, involving more than just me or him — it wasn't something that should be left to me. Yet it was; to me, and only me. He'd laid himself completely at my mercy. I started shivering, and he pulled me into him. I wanted, wanted with all my heart to say no.

When he opened his mouth to ask again, I panicked. I could no more bear his intensity than I could my own wasp's nest of emotions. I was confused, disoriented, even angry, and I knew if he pressed me, I would break, and break him with me.

So I did the only thing I truly wanted at the moment — had wanted for months and months. With a quick shrug, my chemise went over my head.

The sudden movement stalled him, and his mouth fell open a little.

"Kate?" he asked, startled and worried.

"I'm not ready," I said, cupping his face. "I can't decide. Not yet."

I threw the chemise far away. The air felt liberating on my breasts.

"Let me have this," I said. "I want to."

"But you —"

"I need you." I kissed him and ran my fingers up the inside of his thigh. I felt him jolt.

"Kate —"

"Let me have you," I said, my voice precariously close to breaking. "Please, Matt."

He looked at me very strangely then, almost like he didn't quite recognize me, but when I slipped the rest of his robe off his shoulders, he offered no protest. His gaze was on me all the same, dark and almost inscrutable, but I thought there was something close to resignedness, or relief, or yearning. Then it dawned on me — he wasn't ready either. He needed this just as much as I did. I shimmied out of my knickers and underclothes, until I was wearing nothing but the ring.

"I'll answer you later," I told him before I pushed him onto the mattress, my fingers pressing into his firm stomach. He shivered a little as the ring touched his skin, and the muscles in his abdomen clenched into those subtle lines I so enjoyed touching. After the arid months without close contact, his body was an oasis of all I needed, and I wanted nothing more than to indulge myself in exploration, to touch and kiss and lick every familiar inch.

But not right now.

He lifted his hips a little to help me pull his briefs off him; it took me two tries to clear it over his pulsing form. When I straddled him, one of his hands went to my hips to help steady me, his other reaching for my center.

"No." I told him. "Don't move."

"But, Kate… are you sure?"

"You're asking this now?"

"No, I didn't mean —" he stumbled over his words. "You don't feel… wet enough."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"I don't want to hurt you."

I rolled my eyes. "What am I, a virgin?"

"I didn't… At least let me be on top?"

"And why would I do that?"

"So I can —"

"What? So you can what? Go slow?" I brushed my hair behind me. I needed control. I needed to take charge, to be the active one. He was always too gentle, and right now I didn't need gentle. I needed to feel him slam into me. "Stay down, Matt."

He finally acquiesced, though uncertainly so. I aligned myself, both hands flat on his chest for balance. I locked eyes with him.

"Kate," he breathed as I began to sink down on him. He had been right, of course — my body hadn't been anticipating this, and the tip of him alone had me hissing in pain. He sat up a little in alarm. "Are you okay?" he asked in his usual tender way.

Suddenly I was furious at myself.

No, I was not okay. I wanted to bawl and hurl things out of the window. I wanted oblivion, to feel him inside me and take enough off my mind I wouldn't explode. She had endured childbirth, and I couldn't even do this?

I swallowed the pressure behind my eyes and bit my lip — he must have sensed something because he tried to stop me, but I pinned his arms to his side.

"Kate, no, you're going to —"

I took a deep breath, and plunged down.

I scarcely managed to prevent myself from screaming. It was excruciating, nothing like any of the previous times, not even the first. It was like he had broken me, and I felt so stuffed I thought I would be sick. A few drops of involuntary tears seeped out from the corner of my eyes. Yet at the same time, I was… elated. Liberated. Triumphant. I looked down to see his face locked somewhere between shock, anger, and lust. His entire body was trembling, and he was twitching inside me. His hands gripped my waist, his fingers white.

I knew that once he regained his composure, he would stop us to see if he'd hurt me… so I simply began to move. He let out a sound halfway between whimper and moan, looking horrified but too overwhelmed to fight back, temporarily robbed of the ability to speak.

Each motion was against every instinct, every square inch of me shrieking at me to slow down, but I dug my nails into his torso and focused on his face — his mouth agape, his brows furrowed, his eyes almost squinting in a surprised half-grimace. He tried again to stop me, but I knew he couldn't overpower me… not right now. This was what I wanted. This was my effect on him.

The pain came in waves as I rode him. For a few plunges I was afraid it would be permanent, accompanied with that overfull feeling, but as I adjusted around him, it became at first tolerable, then expected, before finally blending into the background. He helped, too — he ended up bringing his fingers to me anyway, despite my command to the contrary. He knew my spots just as I knew his, and soon the pain faded altogether, replaced by a kindling of slow-burning pleasure that simmered with grinding friction.

He'd had plenty of practice before, and in the months between he'd lost none of his considerable skill, rubbing and pressing and flicking. He stared at me as he did so, gauging every reaction. It felt almost like a competition, and one which I was losing. The fire spread like a it was a pine forest after drought — a few minutes in, and abruptly, without ceremony, I was pushed over the edge.

I had to bite him to keep myself from crying out. The climax had taken me completely off guard, my own body colluding with him to override my senses. It was blinding, as a shaft of light would be to an explorer trapped for months in a cave — I had forgotten how powerful it felt, and how powerless I was against it. I pinched him, scratched him, wishing to carve my name into him.

And his hands…! His hands never stopped, tiptoeing the fine line between overstimulation and ecstasy, drawing out my peak into an impossible tendril, shining yet bordering painful in its intensity. My vision all but went blank. Finally, when it was done, I was left scatter-brained and hungry in its wake. My hair was a wild tumble all around and between us.

"Oh," I moaned against him, no better than a heap of goo lying on his chest. "Oh… Matt…"

"I think someone enjoyed that," he remarked, proud and just the right amount of smug. His grin was mischievous, and I couldn't help but return it.

With unsteady hands I pushed myself up, loving the way he looked. A pocket of red on his collarbone belied my peak, and his sculpted chest and belly was crisscrossed with my handiwork. I would keep us frozen in this moment if I could — joined together, him grinning at me, his body marked by me and only me.

"Yes, I did," I said, tickling him. "But now… your turn?"

I clenched myself around him, watching as he seemed to remember the fact that he was still inside me. A blush spread on his face, even though none of this was new to him.

I gave him a smile, tapped his nose, and began to move.

I did everything I knew he liked, almost attacking him with my fingers, my tongue, my teeth. His reactions were well known to me, and I reveled in my control over him, clinging to those little signs like they were my life force — the involuntary thrust, the small throaty groan, the way he tensed his muscles. The writhing, half-tortured pant that was my name.

For a brief while, I could drive everything from my mind and just concentrate on him. On us. The world went away, washing from my immediate consciousness like the tide receding, taking with it the refuse and litter of a thousand filthy coasts. I gloried in the simple togetherness we shared; just us, only us, like it was always meant to be. I was his fiancé, for goodness' sake; I had every right… the only right. The pleasure was beginning to build again, and I rocked faster, with irrefutable determination, and was rewarded with a tight groan.

"Kate, I'm close," he warned. I leaned down to kiss him.

"Then let go," I puffed urgently against his lips. "Come on, Matt."

I ground myself hard on him, once, twice. He hissed. A moment later he bucked, a grunt half-stuck in his throat, and I felt him spasm under me. Just before he went over, he grasped my hand and threaded his fingers through mine. There, between our palms, the ring felt nestled and snug and safe.

He was completely unguarded as he poured all of himself into me. No matter how many times I'd seen it, witnessing his climax was always exceedingly powerful, and my favorite aspect of the whole experience. I tried desperately to ingrain every precious second into my memory — how his expressions changed with each new wave, how his body moved in the throes of pleasure, the warmth gushing inside me, a fountain of his passion.

He laid panting for a few moments after he was spent, sweat beaded on his torso. I combed my hand through his hair, wishing I could photograph him at this moment — fragile and flushed with near-painful bliss, more burning marks on his skin; mine, mine, only mine.

"Someone definitely enjoyed that," I quipped, thumbing his lips.

He was still panting a little, and his face was red, but he gave me his signature smile. "Yes, I did," he said. He ran a hand to my waist, caressing lightly around the sides, and massaged my thighs and hips. I sighed happily, settling myself flat on him once more. It was like autumn sunshine, or a balmy day strolling through the Butcharts' Gardens; there was a complete sense of wholeness, of goodness and certainty, of intimacy and comfort and love — of having shared each other and given each other pleasure. His hands traced a languorous lullaby in my skin, just shy of tickling, as if saying, I'm here, I'm yours. The half-open porthole windows allowed just the right amount of breeze, and I grew drowsy in the soft rolling lassitude of the afterglow.

But then his hands stopped.

"What's wrong?" I asked, puzzled. I wriggled a little, wanting the attention I wasn't getting. He paid me no heed; instead, he was staring at his fingers, frowning. When his gaze returned to me, I realized he was angry.

"You were bleeding," he said simply, showing me the rust red on his nails and fingertips. He pushed me off him and gently pulled out of me. I gave a whine of discontent, but he ignored me and pressed me firmly onto the bed. "Don't move," he said. I heard him make his way to the bathroom, and moments later, he was back with a wet towel.

Neither of us spoke as he nudged my legs apart and proceeded to clean me. The coolness of the soaked fabric soothed my inflamed center; an almost icy relief after the abuse I'd put it through. I watched the concentration and patience on his face, and I thought: he'll make a good father.

I felt his essence seep out of me onto the sheet; millions of copies of himself, his half of the miracle of life.

"I wish I never took the medications," I blurted.

"What medications?" he asked absently, oblivious.

I gripped the sheets, trying to clench myself to stop the fluid from flowing out, as if enough of it could counteract the physiology of the drug.

"The ones… the ones that prevent a baby."

My throat felt tight when I squeezed out the answer, and the words themselves were fluttery, as if they had a mind to fly out the window and never be heard.

He froze. Slowly he put the towel on the nightstand.

I was precariously close to tears, so I gave him a light tug and pulled him on top of me. I thought having him surround me would make me feel better, like it had earlier, but when he rested his head on my shoulder — just like he always did — I began to cry.

He tensed a bit, though still reached out to wipe the droplets from my eyes. I buried myself into him, hands clawing into his shoulders, wishing he were closer, closer, closer. Our sweaty bodies rubbed together, warm and intimate and all broken. I pushed my nose to his underarms, because there his musk was the strongest, and I wanted to be surrounded by his scent, like my personal hideout. My tears mingled with his sweat. I felt his chest rise and fall against me.

Slowly I stopped crying. We breathed together for some time, and then he said:

"Do you think she needs me?"

The question was quiet, solemn, without prelude.

But I hadn't been paying attention. I was too busy feeling the sensation of his skin on mine, too busy trying to memorize his scent. I must have made a noise of confusion, though, for he clarified.

"Ellie," he said, voice low. "Do you think she needs me?"

This time the meaning did register in my distracted mind, though I was at a lost.

"… What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer me. Do you think she needs me?"

I rolled my eyes. "How should I know? You're her father."

Those were as close to fighting words as the circumstance allowed. We were too entangled right now, too bare, too recently bonded, for me to resort to true savagery. All the same, he was silent for a few breaths' time, long enough that I thought I'd been too harsh. I opened my mouth to apologize.

"Nadira told me I wasn't needed," he said before I could do so. "Last week, when I went to say goodbye. She told me Ellie would be better off without me. So I suppose it's just something I've been thinking about. A lot."

There was a bewildered loneliness in his voice, even with him so close to me; as each vibration spread through my body, so too did the desolation now evident within.

"That's preposterous," I said, my guts wrenched itself in an ugly way. "I saw — you saw the baby smiling. At you."

"Ellie is a month old, Kate. She'll smile at anyone." He shook his head. "Nadira's right — I wasn't there for her, I didn't help her. I don't even love her." He looked away from me. "She managed almost a year without me."

"She deliberately kept you in the dark. That's not the same as —"

"She did the best thing for Ellie, and I don't blame her." Abruptly he laughed. I hadn't expected him to laugh. It was an angry, bitter thing, one that wracked his thin frame. "After all, it's like she said: 'Better fatherless than a bastard', right?"

It took a second to fully appreciate the cruelty of the sentence. My mouth fell open.

"She doesn't mean that!" I said, wishing desperately to erase the billowing bleakness brewing inside him. "Isn't she waiting in Lionsgate precisely so you can see the ba — see Ellie, again?"

"No; she meant it, and probably still means it." He shrugged. "She only agreed to wait because I was begging her to when a maid came down the hall, and it would've caused a scene." He laughed again, still mirthless. "Good timing, that."

He tried to be nonchalant, but it was clear just how deeply the remark had wounded him. I hated myself for being so useless — all I could do was hold him, let him know I was here, try to warm him with my body. He caressed my side, and I tracked the trail of his fingers… one circle, two circles, three, four.

"I think she needs you," I whispered. "Ellie."

"You don't have to lie for my sake," he said, kissing my cheek. "In fact, I shouldn't have brought up that question at all. I'm sorry."

"No. She needs you. You might not… feel that way, or Nadira might not, but she needs you. You're her — you're half of her! Who's going to protect her but you? Isn't that what you wanted to do?"

"But that's the point! What I want isn't what's best for her, or for you, or for anyone. I want her in my life, Kate. I want her in my life, but I don't know what to do."

By the last word his voice did break, and my heart broke with it. He cleared his throat for the next few seconds until he managed to calm down.

"She doesn't need me," he said quietly, with a kind of fragile finality, like he was coming to terms with the dissolution of a part of himself. "Earlier you asked me if I love her, and I'm still not sure. But when I thought about how she doesn't need me, how she'll never need me… I realized… I'm the one who needs her."

He took a shuddery breath, trying valiantly to continue, but couldn't. His grip tightened on my waist, and for the first time tonight I caught a glimpse of the boy underneath the mask of a man. From how taut his muscles were, I could tell he was trying not to cry; even now, lying skin to skin with me, he was trying to be strong, and brave, and adult.

Insensibly, my nails dug into his chest, another five marks added to the plethora already there. I was a powder keg of emotions; envious of Nadira, jealous of the baby. Angry at him for caring, furious at myself for being so petty. Terrified I was no longer the only one he smiled for.

Terrified he no longer smiled at all.

It was like that afternoon two years ago, in the mango-scented cave on Spzirglas' island, with the thunderstorm pouring around us, when he was broken and fallen from grace.

I just wanted him to be happy.

When he managed to compose himself, and gave me a tired kiss, I knew what I needed to say. It's only a single visit, I reasoned to myself. He needs this. Let him have this.

I heard him exhale, felt the tiny flinch as I touched the bite on his collarbone. I ran a hand through his hair, down his body with all my markings and scratches. I wanted to cry, for it felt like giving him away; I was to share him with someone I ought to care nothing for.

I kissed him and kissed him again. He let out a confused sound, which turned into surprise when I grabbed him below. He had mostly recovered, and soon grew hard in my hand, though of course he was still worried about me.

"Wait, Kate," he panted, "we shouldn't, you were bleeding —"

I gave him a squeeze, and tugged him to my core. He was still hesitant, but I didn't care; I needed him inside me — I needed us to be the closest we could physically be, before I had the courage to say what I needed to say. Finally, after some prodding, he relented and eased himself in very gradually, making extra sure he wasn't hurting me again.

"Matt?" I said, when he was more or less buried in me.

"Hmm?" he asked, kissing my forehead. "Are you okay?" He obviously wasn't going to start moving unless I asked him to.

I braced myself. We were together, and this was for the both of us. The first time tonight had been for escape; this time, this moment… this was for strength. We were connected, and he was inside me, warm and full. I laced my hand through his.

I'm ready, I said to myself. I'm ready.

"When we land," I said softly, "I want to go with you. To see Ellie again."