His hand covers mine, stopping me. "You don't have to."

"I want to," I assure him, and it's true. After what he's just given me, I want to return the favor, want to see him come undone the way I just did.

He searches my face, looking for hesitation or regret. Finding none, he nods, releasing my hand. I unbutton his jeans, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness. His breath catches as my fingers brush against him through his underwear.

"Lift," I command, echoing his earlier instruction. He complies, raising his hips so I can tug his jeans down his powerful thighs.

As I prepare to return the pleasure he's given me, a thought surfaces through the haze of desire: this moment, perfect in its simplicity, can't last. Tomorrow or the next day, reality will reassert itself. The ocean between Brazil and the U.S. will still exist. Our incompatible dreams will still diverge.

But for now—just for now—we have this.

I sit up, pushing Tiago back against the pillows. The afternoon light catches on the sheen of sweat across his chest, highlighting the contours of muscle beneath smooth skin. His eyes—dark and heavy-lidded with desire—follow my movements as I position myself between his legs, reversing our earlier arrangement. Power shifts between us like sand through fingers, never held too tightly by either.

"You don't have to," he says again, but his voice betrays him—rough with want, the accent thicker now.

"I know." I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down.

His erection springs free, hard and ready against his stomach. I take a moment to look at him fully—the compact strength of his body, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, the familiar yet somehow new terrain I'm about to explore.

"You're staring," he says, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice.

"You're worth staring at," I reply, trailing my fingers up his thigh. His muscles jump beneath my touch.

I wrap my hand around him, feeling the velvet hardness, the pulse of blood beneath thin skin. Tiago's breath hisses between his teeth, his head falling back against the pillows. I stroke him once, slowly, from base to tip, relearning the weight and feel of him in my palm.

"Lucia," he groans, the second syllable of my name stretching into a plea.

I lean down, my hair falling forward to brush against his thighs. His hand reaches out to gather it back, fingers gentle as he holds it away from my face. The tenderness of the gesture almost undoes me, so I focus instead on the task at hand—the physical rather than the emotional.

My tongue traces the underside of his shaft, base to tip, a slow exploration that makes his thighs tense beneath me. When I reach the head, I circle it with my tongue, tasting the saltiness there. His grip on my hair tightens slightly, not painful but present.

"Jesus Cristo," he mutters, the words half-prayer, half-curse.

I glance up to find him watching me, his eyes nearly black with desire. The sight of him—head tilted back, throat exposed, lips parted—sends a renewed pulse of heat through me. I hold his gaze as I take him into my mouth, just the tip at first, savoring the sharp intake of his breath.

Slowly, deliberately, I take more of him, hollowing my cheeks as I slide down his length. His hand tightens in my hair, guiding but not forcing. I establish a rhythm—down, then up, swirling my tongue around the head before descending again. My hand works what my mouth can't reach, creating a seamless sensation.

"So good," he murmurs, his voice strained. "You feel so good."

The praise warms me, encouraging me to take him deeper. I relax my throat, allowing him further in, and am rewarded with a groan that seems torn from his depths. His hips twitch upward, a restrained thrust that speaks to his effort at control.

I pull back, replacing my mouth with my hand for a moment. "You can move," I tell him, my voice huskier than usual. "I can take it."

Something flares in his eyes—hunger, gratitude, disbelief. When I take him in my mouth again, his hips rise to meet me, a careful thrust that tests the boundaries. I moan around him, the vibration making him curse in Portuguese—words I don't need to translate to understand.

We find a rhythm together, his movements matching mine. My free hand explores elsewhere—tracing the cut of his hip bone, the ridges of his abdomen, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. When my fingers brush lower, cupping and gently squeezing, his whole body tenses.

"Deus," he gasps, his accent thick around the word. God.

I increase my pace, taking him as deep as I can before pulling back to focus on the sensitive head. My tongue swirls around it, flicking across the underside where I know he's most responsive. His breathing grows more ragged, his hand in my hair tightening rhythmically.

"Lucia," he warns, voice tight. "I'm close. You should—"

I shake my head slightly, not breaking the rhythm. I want this—want to taste him, want to feel him come undone because of me. Want the raw honesty of it, the truth our bodies share even when our words fail.

His restraint visibly crumbles, his hips moving more insistently now. I match his urgency, my hand and mouth working in tandem, creating the perfect friction. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, knuckles white with tension.

A memory surfaces—Tiago teaching me how to do this, patient and encouraging, never demanding. How nervous I'd been that first time, how tender he'd been afterward. The contrast of then and now—my confidence, his abandon—speaks to the history written in our bodies.

"Lucia," he gasps again, the word breaking in the middle. "I'm going to—"

I feel it before I hear it—the tension in his thighs, the pulse against my tongue, the slight expansion of him in my mouth. Then he's coming, his body arching off the bed, his hand tightening almost painfully in my hair. I stay with him through it, swallowing around him, drawing out his pleasure until he collapses back against the pillows, spent and panting.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sounds in the room are our breathing and the distant call of a bird outside the window. The afternoon has deepened toward evening, the light now golden-orange rather than bright yellow.

I sit up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Tiago watches me through half-lidded eyes, his expression soft with satisfaction and something deeper. His hand reaches for me, tugging me up until I'm lying beside him, my head on his shoulder, his arm around my waist.

"That was..." he begins, then stops, apparently at a loss.

"Worth the wait?" I suggest, aiming for lightness.

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine where we're pressed together. "Worth everything."

The words hang in the air between us. I turn my face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him—salt and skin and the faint remnants of cologne. His hand traces lazy patterns on my bare back, raising goosebumps in its wake.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room.

The truth is complicated—I'm thinking about how good this felt, how much I've missed physical intimacy, how it will hurt to leave again. I'm thinking about the difference between want and need, between comfort and love. I'm thinking about how some things can be perfect in the moment but still impossible in the long run.

"Nothing," I lie, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "Just enjoying this."

He makes a sound—not quite agreement, not quite disbelief—but doesn't press further. His hand continues its path up and down my spine, a soothing motion that makes my eyelids grow heavy.

"We should shower," he says eventually, though he makes no move to get up.

"Probably," I agree, equally motionless.

The suggestion hangs between us, both knowing that stepping out of this bed means reentering reality. Means acknowledging that this was just a temporary respite, not a permanent solution.

But for now, we stay where we are, bare skin against bare skin, heartbeats gradually slowing to a steady rhythm. The satisfaction in our bodies a temporary balm for the wounds we can't seem to heal. The release we sought achieved, if only for a little while.

Tiago's breathing deepens, his arm growing heavier around me as he drifts toward sleep. I should move, should get dressed, should reestablish the boundaries I so eagerly crossed. But I remain, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, allowing myself this one moment of peace.