Are we all hanging in there? If you're familiar with my other stories, I'm going to give you three disclaimers right up top that you'll recognize. 1. Mature Content Warning. 2. It's going to get worse before it gets better; character arcs take a long time ya know? 3. Sorry not sorry for how this ends.

I have to learn to go without if this is it now. – "If This is It Now" by Birdy

Claire

Nobody tells you what to expect when your mom dies.

How The Gray turns to Black and is turns to was.

When you haven't been to a funeral since you were fourteen and outgrew your only black dress, and your boyfriend's brother's wife has to take you shopping, even though your little sister can just wear your hand-me-downs.

How that boyfriend's brother's wife is pregnant and miserable and has to act like she's not any of those things, because your mom just died and you have an unspoken monopoly on bad feelings.

How there are only two seconds of any day that feel normal, right when you open your eyes and are disoriented to life in general. Then the remembering happens, is turns to was, and one life is over again, dragging others down with it. Every interaction I have from here to forever will be viewed through Black-stained glass.

It feels like swimming in the rain.

Some people don't mind it. They even enjoy it, so I've been told.

I've never been one of those people. For as much as I love the water, having it all around me, pressing in on all sides and at all angles, feels more trapping than freeing. When there's water wrapped around my ankles and my legs and also pulling at the ends of my hair and falling onto my face and into my eyes and on my hands and up my nose and in my mouth so I can't see or smell or hear over it and it should be lifting me up but it's weighing me down, down, down and there's no escape, not even once you reach the shore—

That's when I don't like the water. Grief is like trying to surf a tsunami. Swim in a monsoon.

And if grief is those things, maybe death is drowning on dry land.

You hear about it in the context of other people, their messy and confusing lives, but never your own. I'd never drown in a puddle the size of a quarter, you think, and then it happens. I'd never lose my mother before my eighteenth birthday, because that only happens to people who aren't me, you think, and then she's gone, and your boyfriend's brother's wife is zipping up that dress you never wanted to have to shop for in the first place.

Just… drowning, from the inside out. Humans have to be more than eighty percent water, because otherwise why do I feel this way? Like there's water squeezing my lungs on the inside and I haven't been able to take a full breath in five fucking days? When no matter how hard I try to stop, it pours from my eyes anyway, then my nose, then my stomach when I sob too hard?

And the sky—it hasn't stopped raining for one single second in those five fucking days. I know it's got to do with scientific shit like living in the wettest place in America and it being the rainy season… But it's April, and these aren't just showers. And even if they were, what would I have to look forward to in May? More rain? More remembering? More is to was? It's like Earth is mourning her, too. Crying for every person my mother has ever met and will never have the chance to meet.

I refuse to hate water because she loved it—but right now I hate water.

I hate most things. The silence of my house, the way I can't quite remember how her laugh sounds anymore and it's only been five fucking days—what else will I forget? I'm terrified to forget her smell, the way she always put entirely too much lotion on her hands and then would wipe it on her pants, only to get more because she took too much off and her palms were dry again.

All the different ways she said my name. Claire, a praise. Claire, in admonishment. Claire, an I-love-you.

We load up into my father's car, Quil driving. I'm not sure Dad has said a single thing in five fucking days. And why should he? He knows what the Earth knows: the sun is gone.

People I have never met tell me they're sorry for my loss; I wonder if my mother even knew them, or if she would be snorting with me behind our hands. I could do that with Callie, but she got to wear my hand-me-down dress and also hasn't said a word to me in five fucking days. When I catch her eye now, hers go even redder before she turns away again. If I was expecting something good to come from this event, reconciling with my sister is not it.

Pack members hug me tight, then Quil, always by my side. He handles his grief well, I think, as I watch him talking to Jared and Paul. His shoulders look heavy, but he doesn't let the weight drag him down. He keeps eye contact, even when tears start to fall.

My tears fall harder when Jaxyn Powers shows up, face set in a sympathetic frown, and opens his arms for a hug. He offers condolences by not saying anything, just squeezing tighter as I cry harder. If Quil is jealous, he doesn't show it.

(But his hand does stay on my back.)

I am ready for this day to be over, so I can crawl into bed and have Quil cover me up and hold me close. The way my mother never will again.

Eventually, the services start, and Nessie Black plays the piano during my mother's funeral. I think. I see her sitting there, hear something that sounds like I remember music sounding, but I'm still underwater. Everything is garbled, the way adults sound on children's television shows.

Quil's arm stays wrapped around me for the entire time, his thumb making the skin underneath my dress sleeve go raw from stimulation. I don't want him to stop. That littlest piece of contact is enough to keep my heart beating through the waves, a steady pulse that guides me back to shore.

Since my mother was cremated, there is no burial site to trek to in muddy soil or dirt to throw.

And Makahs don't call a meal after a funeral 'bereavement', but there is still a meal made by old ladies who use too much oil and butter.

Quil's tie hangs loosely around his neck, same as my father, and I think they're talking logistics or something. Dad nods, squeezes Quil's shoulder, and walks away.

"Did you get any of that?" Quil asks, scooting his plate of pie toward me, fork already loaded.

I don't want it, but I can't remember the last time I've eaten. It might have been five fucking days ago. The thought nearly makes me snort. I pick up the fork to appease him. "Not a single bit."

"Callie's friends are picking her up. She's staying with them tonight," Quil says as I add too much sugar to the list of things old ladies bake with, and brush my teeth to the list of things I want to do as soon as I'm allowed to leave.

Guilt lances me in the heart, because I shouldn't be in a hurry to leave my mother's funeral. But she's not exactly here, is she? To scold me?

Tears suddenly blur Quil's form, and his thumb swipes under my eye, resting his palm against my cheek.

"I'm going to find Jonathan," he says. "See if he's ready to go."

Somewhere in between loading the car with cards and garden stones and wind chimes and an inconsiderate number of flowers, Callie's friends whisked her away. I am glad she has them, if she won't come to me.

Dad takes a look at our nicks-and-scratches kitchen table, now covered in food the old ladies pressed into our hands as we snuck out the side door. And his eyes go glassy again, which make mine go glassy, and her absence is louder here than it has been all day, surrounded by these things instead of her.

She's not in pain anymore, I remind myself. It feels like a poor attempt to placate myself, but this dress is getting tighter with every passing second, the stitches itchy and uncomfortable. I want to rip it off and scrub my skin where it touched me.

"Jon," Quil says. "Your doctor gave you some pills, didn't he?" He coughs. "For when it's hard to sleep."

Dad looks at Quil funny—or maybe just a little weary. He runs a hand over his chin, a scab there from where he tried to shave this morning for the first time in five fucking days. "He said not to—abuse them." But his voice cracks, and his gaze travels to the medicine cabinet, and I know his fight is lost.

"This isn't abuse," Quil says, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. "This is self-preservation."

Dad nods, accepts the glass and the two little white pills in Quil's hand, and kisses me on my hair. But he looks toward my parents' closed bedroom door, the room where my mother stopped breathing, and heads for the couch instead.

Quil catches my eye, nods toward the stairs. "Go change," he says. "I know that dress is uncomfortable."

It's a simple observation—I've been pulling at the sleeves, twisting at my torso—but it sends just the tiniest pulse of warmth through my drowning heart. Like that first sip of hot chocolate after playing in the snow.

I trudge up the stairs, wishing Callie was here, that we could snuggle in bed, share a look before we both stick our ice-cold feet on Quil's calves and cackle with laughter when he yells.

But Callie isn't here, and neither is my mother.

Closing my door, alone for the first time since Bethany and Embry showed up this morning to help get us together, I think I'll cry. Sink to the floor and remember all the things I miss most.

I'm exhausted, though. The kind where just blinking hurts but keeping your eyes open makes them hurt worse. Where crying is too much effort.

I take a few steps into my bedroom, which feels stale. Void of signs of life. I pry open my window and the cold, wet breeze steals my breath. I need to feel more of it, on all the pieces of me that are sore. I pull my dress up from the hem, without even unzipping it, and let it fall to the floor. My shoes come next, one ankle boot then the other.

Thank God for far-away neighbors, because it lets me stand in front of my open window, nearly naked.

There's a knock at my door, and I turn as it swings open. I don't even have time to cover up.

Once I see Quil's face, slack-jawed and heat-laced, I'm not sure I want to.

"Shit, sorry," Quil mumbles, his ears going dark red. He starts to retreat, turning back into the hallway.

"Wait," I say. "Look at me, Quil."

His groan is anguished, and I swear I think I see his body shimmer as he stares at the wall. "Claire, you're practically naked."

I glance down at my ugly nude bra and polka dot panties. I swallow, feeling my heartbeat stronger than I have in five fucking days. And then I jump off the cliff. "Look at me."

His sigh is resigned, but he does what I tell him and turns back to me. He scans my body, and I watch the color disappear from his eyes as his pupils dilate.

Goosebumps break out on my skin wherever his gaze travels. My neck, over the straps of my bra, to the shadows and dips of cleavage. Lower, across my stomach.

"Quil?" I allow my eyes to take a tour of his body. He's discarded his dress shirt at some point, standing before me in dress pants and a white tee. But he may as well be shirtless by the way it hugs him, the fabric stretched over his muscles. My eyes move downward, over his abs and the hem of his shirt and oh my God, Quil's already straining against his pants.

He sounds just as anguished when he speaks next. "Yeah."

"Don't you want to touch me?" I'm only slightly goading, because his body is answering for him.

I'm sure he can hear my heart racing, my thighs rubbing together at just the thought of his hands on my body.

"Claire, I—"

"Be honest." My voice is surprisingly firm for how shaky my knees are. For how much my heart aches and drowns.

He groans, low and long. "I want… I want to do so much more than just touch you."

My thighs press together harder, and his eyes zero in on it. His nostrils flare.

"I want it, too," I breathe, pleading. "Whatever you want, Quil, I guarantee I want it just as bad."

I watch, breath caught just beneath my ribs, as he turns back to the door, and shuts it with a soft click. Then, for as slow as he just was, he's lighting here. He rushes the room, but my gasp makes him stop two paces short of touching me.

His eyes squeeze shut. "We can't."

"Quil, please."

"We're not thinking straight." I note that he doesn't say I'm not thinking straight. He's in this weird limbo place, too.

"Put your hands on me." My voice is sharp again. Commanding. Which is good, because I think that's the only way he'll take his clothes off right now, if I tell him he has to.

His pulse jumps in his neck, the veins tight and protruding. He reaches for me, stopping short again. But with a groan, or maybe a growl, he grabs my face with his warm and rough hands and leans down to kiss me.

His heat pricks at my exposed skin, and when he presses against me, heavy and hard in all the right places, it overpowers every last ounce of self-control I have. If I ever had any to begin with.

I fumble for his shirt by the collar, twisting my fingers in as my tongue plunders his wet, open mouth.

Quil's lips leaves mine only to help me free him of the offending fabric, and then his hands are mapping my curves, blunt and ragged fingernails digging into the skin of my hips, my waist, my lower back, as his mouth assaults mine. His tongue searches my mouth, exploring and learning and tasting.

I trace his muscles in return, unmoving under my touch. Or maybe not unmoving, because before I have time to question myself, I'm pushing him backward onto my still unmade bed, and he's grunting, his hips shifting up.

Him pressed to me in this position sends me into a spiral of desire, and my skin is electric with hypersensitive awareness. His teeth drag across my bottom lip, then my jaw. His hands have settled low around my hips, half touching skin, half touching cotton.

His hands slide up the length of my spin, and goosebumps break out in their wake, illuminating all the places he hasn't yet touched me. When his fingers touch fabric again, this time on my bra straps, he pulls back with a grunt, breathless.

That sound unlocks a new level of want in my body, and I roll my hips to his, once, twice. Again. Again.

"Claire," he groans, pulling back. "I don't think we should do this."

"Please, Quil. Please. I just need to… not think for a while." I run my tongue down his throat and across his collarbone. "I'll stop if you tell me to. But I don't want to stop. I don't want to feel anything but you."

"I—fuck me," he chokes as my fingers find his belt.

"That is the plan, yes."

It doesn't feel right to say I'm acting on autopilot considering I've never done this before. But my body does take over. My heart thuds between my legs as I finish undoing his pants and look up at him.

He gives me the tiniest nod of approval, a whispered yes, as he lifts up to let me guide them down, along with his underwear.

I've seen exactly one penis in my life before this moment, and let me just say, seeing Jacob Black's dick did not do what seeing Quil Ateara's is doing to me right now.

Quil is proud and thick and big, the dark red color of the head reminding me, albeit ironic as hell, of a cherry lollipop. I reach out, curious as to how he feels. It's soft, warm, with a little bead of moisture at the slit. He's hot velvet in my palm, and although I know my grip is clumsy and unsure, the sound he makes—the growl—increases my confidence tenfold.

That's the only concession he gives me. Before I can even complete the first stroke, I'm on my back and my underwear are being ripped down my thighs with one hand, my bra being pushed up with the other.

"God, look at your tits," he rasps before he buries his face in them, his teeth latching on, pulling just right.

"Please," I say, though I'm not quite sure what it is I'm begging for. His strong thigh is between mine and it's doing just enough to drive me crazy.

But Quil—he knows what I need. After he finishes peeling off my underwear and bra, his hand trails up my leg to replace his thigh. Touching me bare.

It feels too good to be embarrassed at the sound I make, but with my one remaining brain cell, I pause. "My dad?"

"Knocked," Quil says, sliding his finger down to gather some wetness, the way I do when I'm alone.

This isn't like the other times, when we were rushed, or I was desperate. I mean, I am desperate, but before I was running a race without a finish line. This time I can see it.

"Quil," I whimper, gripping his wrist in fear that he'll pull away, get in his head about it.

He growls, his tongue circling my nipple as his fingers massage my clit. "I'm not going anywhere." He releases my nipple with a pop, then moves to the other one like he can't quite help himself. Sucks me like candy.

God, he's so good at that. At everything. I feel my body loosening for him, getting ready. Getting wetter and wetter and wetter. I hear myself, how ready I am.

"Now?" I think out loud, because surely it can't get better than this.

He looks up as his lips descend my body. "I already told you. Now I make you see stars."

His words alone are almost too much. So that, coupled with his lips near my hipbones, has me practically vibrating with anticipation.

I don't need to tell him I've never done this—he knows. He encourages my legs to open wider so his shoulders can fit between them.

"Look at you," he says reverently, running the lightest of touches down my seam. "So pink and perfect and waiting for me. Mmm."

And before I can even think about that sound, his mouth finds my clit.

He doesn't taste me gently. He tastes me like I'm the only thing keeping him alive. I am his oxygen right now, like he is mine. My legs beg to close around his head, but with a firm grasp, he tugs my knees away, pins them to the mattress.

He's taking away my control, and I'm surprised to find I like it. In a time that is so messy and uncertain, he's allowing me a chance to just… let go and relax and trust him to guide me to what's best.

So I sink further into the bed, focus on the way the comforter is soft under my back, but his grip is hard under my knees. How my nipples pinch from the cold of the open window, but my belly is filled with flames.

How I'm struggling to catch my breath and I'm not sure Quil's breathing at all.

Without pulling away, Quil smiles against me. "I bet you grip my cock so tight."

He pulls a hand from my leg and my knee shoots toward his ear, desperate to hold him in place or push him away, I can't tell, the pleasure is too much. He shoves my knee back to the mattress, not bruising but not exactly nice either. "Keep them there."

"Why—" I gasp when he sucks my clit harder. Every nerve ending in my body is seconds from exploding. I don't know how I haven't come already.

"I want to drive you crazy," he murmurs. I'm staring at the ceiling, so I can't see what he's doing, but I feel him. The lightest pressure from his fingers, just inside me. He's everywhere, all at once. "So goddamn good. Fuck, sweetheart."

"Quil, I—" I try to push him off, concerned I'm going to hurt him. I fist and kick at the mattress, shove his head, but he doesn't go anywhere. In fact, he latches on tighter.

Jerking against him, I let out a high-pitched moan. "I can't," I whimper when he doesn't stop. I'm thrashing, overly sensitized, burning. My heels are digging into the sheets; I think I kick him in the back.

"You can," he growls, then keeps at it. "I want you dripping wet when you take me."

"Please, I—" I gasp. That is what I do. It's all I can do. Gasp and moan and hold the fuck on. To anything. The pillow, the sheets, Quil.

I see stars. All my muscles tense, then release in a flood of pleasure and sparks.

I come. God, do I come so hard. I can't make a single noise, can't breathe, can't think anything but This. This. This. Quil. This.

Quil slows his movements, opting for light kisses instead of languid licks. When he hovers over my body again, I finally pry my eyes open.

The lights are bright, and Quil's face unblurs as he comes into focus. His lips are slick with me, his nose, too. His eyes are hooded with desire. But soft. There's a flush high on his cheekbones.

"Should I, er—" I reach for him, heavy between my thighs.

He catches my wrist. "Do you want to?"

I can barely hear him over my heartbeat. But I think through it. If I do this now, I'll want to learn what he likes. And, as we all know, I am a learner. I'll have to try and try until I get it right. I'll want feedback in the moment. I'll be discouraged when I get it wrong. And I don't want anything to take away from this euphoria flowing through my veins like blood.

I give him a miniscule shake of the head. "Next time."

He presses a wet kiss to my shoulder. "Are you still taking your pills?"

"Every day." I'm not sure what to do with my hands, so I let them grip the sheets again.

"Do you want to use a condom?" he whispers against my collarbone, his tone a little more serious now that we're getting down to the actual business part. He chases his words with a kiss.

We've discussed sex, sex together, but he's ultimately left the decision up to me.

"No," I say. "Just us."

He arranges my limbs again, taking care of me in this little way, and I try not to think about his few other times. The way those women felt in the minutes and seconds before he joined them. They don't matter now.

Does anything?

The Black starts to gnaw at my heart, and I pull his lips down to mine again, intent to suffocate it, choke it out. If only for a while. Quil is golden, bright yellow and warm. Sunshine and darkness can't coexist.

"Hey, wait a second," he murmurs, his fingers massaging my hip as he finishes aligning us. His ears are bright red, eyes midnight black. "It might not happen for you just this way, okay? An orgasm. Sometimes girls don't." His hand wanders down, giving me a few featherlight strokes that, with the area already primed and sensitive, do more for me than twenty minutes of my own touch. "So I'm gonna touch you here. And it will help you."

I shake my head, eyes fluttering shut before I realize I need to look at him more than I need to feel embarrassed. This is Quil. My Quil. "I will come this way, though. It's an imprint thing."

He pauses. "Wait, what?"

"All the other girls," I breathe. "They did with their wolf the first time. They do every time. Bethany thinks it's magic." Turns out there wasn't much Bethany wasn't willing to tell me when I asked about sex.

Quil's eyes go wide, and I watch his thought process. He intakes. Comprehends. Understands. Grins.

"Are you sure, Claire?" he asks softly, all business since he used my actual name. His eyes are unfocused as he searches for hesitation in my face. "We can't go back from this."

"I don't want to go back," I say, lifting my leg to hitch it around his hip. "Please. Give me this. Give me you."

He groans, his nostrils flaring as he braces one hand by my head. "I'll go slow at first, okay? It will hurt less for you that way."

And with a final nod from me, Quil moves.

The first push is long and slow, stretching, so stretching—the pressure is all I can feel. I've never been so full, to the point I'm at now. Where there's no more possible space but he finds it anyway. Quil rubs gently at my hip, his lips leaving a trail of kisses over my neck and jaw.

But over the stretch, the pressure, the unfamiliarity, it's the speed that's the most agonizing. Inch by inch, it ratchets up my desire another notch. I know everyone says patience is key. But I've never been much of a patient person.

"Do it," I breathe. "Just do it."

"Claire—"

The Black is closing in, squeezing my heart and my throat and my memories.

"Now." I spur my foot into his butt, forcing him forward.

It's a stinging kind of pain, stretching and shocking and… impaling. It hurts, and I gasp. But Quil's long groan coupled with "Holy Hell" eclipses some of the pain. I'm the one who made him make that noise. I like that noise. I wonder what other noises we'll pull out of each other before this is over.

"Okay?" he grunts, and each of those two syllables sounds strained and forced.

I take in a breath, and I'm surprised when he reaches up and wipes away a few beads of moisture from my cheek.

"I'm fine," I say, nodding too fervently. His eyebrow quirk tips me off to his disbelief, so I let out a shaky breath. "It's a lot. It mostly stings."

"Wanna keep going?" he asks. I shift my hips, testing the waters, and he reaches down, holding me in place. "Don't do that."

Despite myself, I giggle. It's the first one in five fucking days. "Why?"

His eyes are dark but lit with heat, and his brows push together as he answers. "I want this to last, okay?" His sincerity makes my insides feel different, with something to clench around now. He notices, because the chuckle turns to a groan in his throat.

Eventually, the sharp sting eases to a dull one, and I give him a little nod. When he starts to move again, pulling out all the way and pushing back in, I gasp as a thousand different sensations flood my body. "Oh."

He stills. "Does it hurt too much? We can stop."

"No." I press my hand to his chest, over the heart that's hammering almost clear through his skin. "Please." But I sound a little more broken than I'd like.

"Claire, I—"

"No," I say again, emotion clogging my throat. To my embarrassment, my eyes start leaking. I can't cry. I need Quil to make me forget, scare off death and fill me with sunshine instead of darkness.

"I have held back so much for so long," I choke through gritted teeth. "I'm not doing that anymore. I love you, Quil, so much. Life is short and tomorrow isn't guaranteed." At this, his palm come up to cradle my jaw, resting his forehead on mine.

"So I don't care if I have to put money in the swear jar later," I say. I swallow one last time at his confused expression the tears in his eyes. "Fuck me," I say. "Now."

Groaning, he relents, beginning again. "God," he says, his head hanging down onto my shoulder like it weighs too much to hold up.

It's such a weird sensation, pain mixed with pleasure, back and forth. But my insides are filled in a way I didn't know I could be. He touches parts of me I hadn't known existed, places I didn't know missed his touch. I feel made for this, for him. With every thrust, my body relaxes to him, opens further. The first time his hips meet mine fully I gasp in pleasure.

He laughs against my neck, pure elation. "Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

I nod, chewing hard on my bottom lip. "Yes." And then because I really mean it, I repeat it. "So good."

My eyes slide open. He's watching my face, satisfaction and love and grief all mixing. "Great," he says.

I can't help my laugh. We're really playing our game right now, right in the middle of this—this moment? He shifts his hips, just a hair, but it's enough. This really is so good. Better than good, better than great— "Amazing."

He drops to his forearms. "Wonderful."

And we go like this for an undeterminable amount of time. His breath is hot over my skin, wherever he decides to kiss or nip. My throat. My ear. Collarbone. Shoulder. Breast. Fingertips. When he's touching me, I don't feel anything but his warmth.

"Fantastic." Me, as he wraps an arm around my back and tucks me into the warm cocoon of his chest.

"Incredible." Him, after my fingernails dig into the skin of his round backside.

"Super." Him again, after my teeth find the soft flesh of his earlobe.

"Mind-blowing." Me, after his thumb increases speed on my clit.

"Earth-shattering." Him, my hair wrapped around his fist as his nose hits my pulse point.

That one, I get. I feel like I could explode at any moment. I tell him this, in fewer words. "I'm close."

"Yeah?" One of his thumbs grazes the stiff peak of my nipple, gives it a little tug that zips straight to my clit. "You're already soaked, you know it? You hear it? How we sound together? Am I gonna get to feel you come all over my cock, sweetheart?"

I nod, my breaths escaping as moans against my will. My nod turns to head-thrashing, side to side. I've never felt this much of anything before.

"Let me hear you say it." Those words are a growl, and not a request. When I don't answer right away, he stops altogether, withdrawn to just the tip. "Claire."

I groan, but it turns to a sharp moan when he suddenly fills me full. "Yes, I'm gonna come on your cock. Yes. So good."

"You said that one already," he tells me, thrusting harder, punishment maybe. It's angry now, but it's still not enough. I ignore the tears that slip down his face, even in the midst of his pleasure, because I have some on mine too. He shifts our hips into a new angle, one that brushes his pelvis against mine in a way that's just so—

"Perfect," I gasp, clutching at his chest. "Perfect, Quil. There. Please. Perfect."

I wonder how I can know in my head I just lost our game—twice over—but feel like a winner at the same time.

And then I fall off a cliff, into a warm and deep and vast pile of Quil Ateara, and the only thing I wonder is why the hell I've waited so long to feel this way. This climax is different than the others he's given me. It's brighter. Harsher. More intense. That makes sense, since Quil is the sun. I'm on the surface of it right now.

He repeats that word, perfect. I've never heard that word uttered more… well, perfectly.

He picks up speed, resting his forehead against mine as he snaps his hips faster. "I'm so gone for you, Claire. Goddamn, you take me so well. Such a good girl for me. So pretty when you come."

Our legs are sliding, skin sticking, hearts pounding, hands grabbing. I'm riding a wave that continues to swell and crest. His words light me on fire just as much as his movements. There are tears in our eyes, sliding down my cheeks and his, each one a different facet of us: emotion and sensation and love and lust and grief. My heart may shatter, explode, or drown, it's up in the air. "Quil, again."

"Always." He is fierce and powerful within me, a little wild. Like me. Like us.

My back bows off the bed so forcefully my muscles scream, and then I scream a little, rage and sadness and love and passion, but Quil snakes his arm under and catches me before I fall.

What does me in this time is Quil's face, how his red-rimmed eyes roll up to the ceiling as he bites his lip. How I know, instinctively, he's going to come, too.

Quil lets out a strangled noise almost drowned out by mine, and my brain registers the sound as a muted roar. We break together, the bed squeaking and groaning and moaning just as much as we are. Powerful and mighty and raw. And broken.

He slows, then stills, and for a long moment, the only sounds are our heartbeats, our jagged breaths, in tandem. Always in tandem.

Other things slowly begin to filter back in. A soft rain falling outside. A logging truck ambling by on the main road. The way my skin is sticky with sweat, the sheets clinging to my back.

"I still have my socks on," I note, rubbing the ball of my foot up his calf.

Quil nuzzles his nose into my hair, kissing me there as he slowly pulls out. He looks down. "Shit," he murmurs, then his brow furrows as he catches my eye. "How do you feel?"

I follow his gaze. Blood is smeared along the skin of my thighs, and on him. I reach between my legs, missing his absence more than anything. My fingers come away red.

"Claire, I'm so fucking sorry."

I shake my head, grabbing his wrist as he tries to stand to his feet. "Don't go. It's fine."

"Let me get a washcloth. I'll clean you up." He tugs free gently, nodding toward the bathroom.

The washcloth is warm, and he is gentle against my sensitive skin. The more time that passes, the more the sensations turn from arousing to uncomfortable. He apologizes the entire time, and I refuse them just as often, even as tears blur my vision.

"Okay," he says, tossing the dirty washcloth at the hamper by my closet. He settles me in the cradle of his body, my back to his front. "How do you feel now?"

A grin overtakes my face, and I say, "Super."

And then it sinks in. What we've done, but more importantly when we've done it, and the grin slips off my face. I don't realize I'm crying again until Quil tightens his hold on me, burying his nose in my hair.

"I know," he says. "I know."

But I don't. I don't know why I'm crying, why I gave myself over to my body but it didn't work. I still miss her, and The Black is still here, hovering just on the edges of my heart.

I go to ask Quil, but he's fighting fatigue, his voice going huskier. So, while Quil talks himself to sleep, I do what I do best, what has always brought me the most comfort when things are so up-in-the-air.

I make a plan.