The Only Real Thing

Certainty in the Wasteland

She found him in the observation deck again, staring out at the amber wasteland like it might finally give him answers if he just looked long enough. Three days since they’d started traveling together—three days of careful distance and loaded silences and the kind of tension that made the air between them feel combustible.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that window,” she said.

He didn’t turn. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

“Staring at nothing until reality breaks?” She moved closer, close enough to see his reflection in the glass, to catch the set of his jaw. “I’ve tried that. Doesn’t work.”

“Nothing works.” His voice was flat, exhausted. “That’s kind of the point of this place.”

She should leave. Should give him space, respect the walls he’d built around himself since waking up here. But something about the defeat in his posture, the hollow exhaustion he wore like armor, made her want to break through. To make him feel something besides the numbness.

“You don’t believe that,” she said.

Now he turned, and the look he gave her was dangerous—all sharp edges and barely contained fury. “Don’t I?”

His eyes tracked over her face like he was searching for proof of his own cynicism, waiting for her to flinch, to back down, to prove that even this, whatever was building between them, was just another lie.

She held his gaze. Stepped closer.

“No,” she said quietly. “Because if you believed nothing worked, you wouldn’t still be fighting.”

Something flickered across his face. Pain, rage—gone too quickly to name. “You don’t know what I believe.”

“Then tell me.”

“Why?” The word came out harsh. “So you can fix me? I’m not a project—”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. Just the sudden, overwhelming need to stop the words, to break through, to make him feel something real. Her hands found his face and his mouth was hot against hers and for a heartbeat he went absolutely still.

Then he kissed her back, and it wasn’t gentle.

His hands gripped her waist, pulling her hard against him. The kiss was fierce, desperate, all the frustration and fear he’d been carrying channeled into the press of his mouth on hers. She gasped and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until she was dizzy with it.

When he pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his eyes were wild. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably.” Her heart was racing.

“We don’t even know who we are.”

“I know who you are right now.” She traced her thumb along his jaw, felt him shudder. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” His voice was raw. His fingers flexed against her waist like he couldn’t decide whether to pull her closer or push her away. “Because I don’t know if I’m even real.”

“Does it feel like a simulation?” She let her lips brush against his throat, felt his pulse hammering there.

“No.” The admission came out strangled. “It feels like the only real thing.”

“Then stop thinking.”

He kissed her again, harder, and they stumbled backward until her spine hit the wall. His body pressed against hers, solid and warm and utterly present, and when his hand slid under her shirt, skin against skin, she arched into the touch with a sound that was half gasp, half plea.

His mouth moved to her throat, her collarbone, finding sensitive places that made her breath hitch. Her fingers tangled in his hair and when she tugged, he groaned against her skin in a way that sent heat pooling through her.

“We should stop,” he murmured, even as his hands mapped the curve of her waist, her ribs, higher.

“Why?” She was breathless, barely coherent.

“Because if we don’t...” His thumb brushed against bare skin and she shivered. “I need you to be sure.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’m sure. The only thing I’m sure of is this.”

Something in his expression cracked open. He kissed her again, slower but no less intense, and when his hands found the hem of her shirt she helped him pull it over her head. The cool air hit her skin for only a moment before his mouth was on her again, trailing heat down her throat, her shoulder, lower.

Her head fell back against the wall as his lips traced the edge of her bra, his breath hot against her skin. When his hands moved to her back, fingers finding the clasp, he paused.

“Yes,” she breathed.

The fabric fell away and his hands, rough and careful at once, cupped her breasts, thumbs circling until she was gasping, arching into his touch. His mouth followed, and the sensation of his tongue against her nipple made her cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God,” he muttered against her skin, “you’re—”

She cut him off by pulling at his shirt, needing to feel him, needing skin against skin. He helped her strip it off and then they were pressed together, her breasts against his chest, his hands sliding down to grip her hips as he ground against her in a way that made them both groan.

She reached for his belt and he caught her wrist, breathing hard. “Are you sure?”

Instead of answering, she used her free hand to pop the button of his pants, slid the zipper down slowly while holding his gaze. His pupils were wide, his jaw clenched with the effort of control.

“Bedroom,” he managed. “Not—not against a wall.”

“Why not?” She palmed him through his boxers and he made a sound that was almost pained.

“Because when I finally have you, I want to take my time.”

The promise in those words sent a shiver through her. He kissed her again, deep and claiming, then took her hand and pulled her toward the sleeping quarters. They barely made it, stopping twice to press against walls, unable to keep their hands off each other.

When they finally reached the bed, he laid her down with a gentleness that contrasted with the hunger in his eyes. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in—half-naked, breathing hard, looking up at him with want written across every line of her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said roughly.

She reached for him and he came to her, covering her body with his, the weight of him perfect and right. His mouth found hers again as his hand slid down her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her pants. When he touched her finally, finally—she gasped against his mouth.

“So wet,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Is this for me?”

“Yes.” She could barely form words. “Please—”

He worked her pants down and off, taking her underwear with them, and then his fingers were back, circling, teasing, building pressure until she was writhing beneath him. When he slid one finger inside her, then two, she cried out, her hips rocking against his hand.

“That’s it,” he breathed against her ear. “Let me hear you.”

She was lost in sensation, in the slide of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb against her clit, the heat of his mouth on her neck. When she came, it rolled through her in waves, her body arching off the bed as she cried his name—or the name she’d been calling him, neither of them sure if it was real.

He kissed her through it, gentle now, letting her come down slowly. When she could breathe again, she reached for his pants, pushed them down along with his boxers, and wrapped her hand around him. He was hard and hot in her palm, and when she stroked him he groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“I need you,” she whispered. “Now.”

He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of him pressing against her entrance. “Tell me if—”

“Don’t stop,” she said, and pulled him down into a kiss.

He pushed into her slowly, giving her time to adjust, and the stretch of it, the fullness, made her gasp against his mouth. When he was fully seated inside her, they both went still, breathing hard, eyes locked.

“Okay?” he managed.

“Move,” she demanded.

He did, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and the friction was perfect, overwhelming. She wrapped her legs around his hips, changing the angle, and they both groaned at the sensation. He set a rhythm deep, steady, purposeful; and she met him thrust for thrust, their bodies finding a synchrony that felt inevitable.

His mouth was everywhere, her lips, her throat, her breasts, and she raked her nails down his back, leaving marks, claiming him the way he was claiming her. The pleasure built between them, coiling tighter with each movement, each gasp, each whispered word.

When she came the second time, it was harder, more intense, her inner walls clenching around him as she shattered. He followed moments later, burying his face in her neck as he pulsed inside her, her name a prayer on his lips.

They lay tangled together afterward, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat. He pressed his forehead to hers, both of them still breathing hard.

“That was—” he started.

“Real,” she finished. “That was real.”

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