“Ada!” he bellows, a savage growl tearing out of him and he’s coming inside me and coming apart just as I am, his fingers digging into my skin, sweat falling on my back. One final brutal thrust and he’s pulling out of me, falling onto the bed beside me.
I can barely move. I’m flattened. Inside and out.
I manage to turn my head to look at him, my cheek pressed against the sheets.
He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling like he’s mind has been blown, sweat gathered on his forehead, chest rising and falling as he struggles to catch his breath.
“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he says after a moment, voice low and hoarse. He turns his head to face me. “I could do that again and forever.”
I beam at him lazily. “If you play your cards right, maybe you will.”
He closes his eyes, nodding, letting out a long breath. “I’ll play them right.”
I know he will. There’s this deep, solidness to him, ironic for someone who once faded away. There’s a solidness to us, that makes me feel secure, makes my bones ache in the intensity of my feelings for him.
I push myself up and inch closer to him, draping one arm over his chest, cradling his head. I run my fingers through his hair, gazing at his lips, his eyes, as he keeps them closed.
“I think you need a nap,” I tell him, his breathing becoming steady.
“Just need to recharge,” he murmurs.
I kiss his forehead, continue to absently stroke his hair, playing with the strands and—
Holy shit.
“Max,” I say through a gasp.
He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “What?”
“You have a grey hair!”
He blinks. “What?!”
It’s true. There’s a single grey hair near his temple in the sea of red. It wasn’t there before. I know it wasn’t.
“Right here,” I say, giving it a tug.
“Don’t pull it out!” he exclaims.
And then he does something I don’t expect.
He covers his face with his hands, breathing hard.
Oh shit.
Is this good or bad?
I watch him for a moment, putting my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Max?” I say gently.
He nods, lifting his hands away.
Eyes red, wet with tears.
“I’m okay,” he says, swallowing hard, gasping a little. “I’m okay.”
“Is this…?”
He looks at me and bursts into the most beautiful smile, a smile that gets me right in the heart. “It’s good. It’s good, Ada. This is what I wanted.” He shakes his head in wonder, searching my face. “When you pulled me out of the Veil, that’s when I…I knew that I was never truly free. I never aged after I gave things up for Rose. I died and came back. That’s not a death. But now…this…for the first time…for the first time, I’m free.”
I’m feeling it now too, my jaw getting tight from emotion. “You’re aging. You’re going to grow old.” I take in a deep breath. “You’re going to die.”
“Eventually,” he says, after a beat. “Eventually.”
“Does this mean…I’m not keeping you alive?” I ask him. I can still feel the energy from my palm going into his skin and back.
“I don’t think so,” he says softly, clearing his throat. “But you’re still the reason I’m here.”
I exhale in relief, a weight lifted as I rest my forehead on his shoulder.
He places his hand at the back of my head, holding me to him.
We might get to grow old together, I think.
But I’m not brave enough to voice that fantasy to him.
Not yet.
Right now, he’s here. He’s here to stay.
That’s enough.
Three days later, we emerge from the motel, sexed out, sated, happy.
Max went and “borrowed” a 1970 Chevelle SS. Fire engine red.
We hit the road, heading home.
“So, now that I can handle it, is your sword going to stay at your apartment, or at my house?” I ask, biting the end off a Twizzler.
Max gives me a dry look, brows raised as we pull off I-84, heading toward my house. “Which sword are we talking about here?”
“Mew Mew.”
“Mew Mew?” he laughs. “Well, Mjöllnir is staying with me. But you can play with it any time, sweetheart.”
“You know I will.” Then I pause. “Mew Mew.”
“Mjöllnir,” he repeats.
“You know you say it so well. Let me guess, you speak Norwegian.”
“I speak every language,” he says with a wink. “Uomo del mondo.”
“Italian?”
“Whatever you like, baby. I’m a man of the world.”
I roll my eyes, managing to refrain from calling him the master of cheese again.
Ah, I fucking love it when he’s cheesy. But I don’t tell him that.
After we picked up the Chevelle in New Orleans, we drove back home via a different route, cutting through Utah and Idaho. Max kept the pedal to the metal, and we managed to do the trip in three days.
Suffice to say, both of us have been pretty fucking eager to get home.
Home.
Even seeing the suburbs of Portland has my heart racing and swelling and I’m so excited to have my own bed again, though it’s going to be hard getting used to not sleeping with Max. Actually, that’s going to be agony. I’ll probably end up spending all my time at his apartment; it’s closer to my school anyway.