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Tomorrow night, Hawkins might not exist anymore.
Nobody said it out loud downstairs, but the fear sat heavy in every room of the WSQK anyway—in the clipped conversations, in the maps spread across the table, in the way everyone kept looking at Eleven when they thought she wouldn’t notice.
Vecna. One last plan. One last shot.
Mike felt sick with it.
He’d spent the whole evening pretending he could focus while Hopper argued logistics with Nancy and Dustin paced holes into the floor explaining backup plans that all sounded like suicide missions. El had sat quietly beside him, close enough to touch, and every few minutes Mike would glance at her just to make sure she was still there.
Still breathing. Still real.
Then, sometime right before sundown, her fingers brushed his wrist, slipping beneath his jacket sleeve.
“Roof?” she whispered.
Mike looked at her for half a second before nodding immediately.
Anything she wanted. Anything tonight.
The roof tar was still warm from the day. Mike’s hands shook as he spread the blanket out, his eyes constantly darting to El—to her lips, to the way her tight swimtop under her open sweatshirt hugged her full breasts. When she sat beside him, the scent of her skin hit him like a drug. He kissed her, clumsy and hungry, and when her fingers curled into his jacket, he knew he was already lost.
“It’s okay,” she whispered against his lips, her breath warm enough to make his head spin. Her hands moved slowly up his chest, skimming over the sweater his mom had bought him, before settling on his shoulders like she was holding him together. Her brown eyes looked almost black in the dimming light, soft and steady on his face.
He nodded because he couldn’t manage anything else, his throat locked too tight around words. His own hands couldn’t seem to stay still, tracing her like he needed to relearn every part of her—the curve of her waist beneath the tight material, the line of her spine, the fragile shape of her shoulders beneath his palms.
“Tell me,” he managed, his voice rough. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I do not want you to stop.” Her answer was immediate, certain. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged. “This. Off.”
The cool evening air hit his skin as he pulled the shirt over his head. Her gaze dropped to his chest, his stomach. He felt exposed, lanky and pale, but her look wasn’t judgment. It was study. Her fingertips traced the line of his collarbone, then lower, over his ribs. Her touch was electric, a current straight to his groin. His cock was already hard, straining against his jeans, a persistent, aching throb he’d been fighting all afternoon watching her train.
He leaned in and kissed the small, silver scar above her eyebrow. Then her temple. The corner of her mouth. Her neck. She tipped her head back, a soft sound escaping her lips. His mouth found the hollow of her throat, tasted salt and soap. His hands fumbled with pulling her wetsuit down, his fingers stupid and thick. She helped him, her movements calm where his were frantic, until the top hung off awkwardly and she let out the smallest breath of laughter.
She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath and the sight punched the air from his lungs. Her breasts were perfect, pale in the twilight, her nipples tight and dark. He stared, his mouth dry. He’d imagined this a thousand times, but the reality was a physical blow.
Her movements were calmer than his, steadier, like she understood how overwhelmed he was and didn’t mind waiting for him to catch up.
His hands hovered uncertainly over her before she reached for them herself, guiding them back to her like she already knew he was afraid of doing something wrong.
She brought his hand until he cupped one breast, his thumb brushing over the peak. She gasped, her back arching off the blanket.
“Oh, Mike.”
He lowered his head then and took her into his mouth. The skin was impossibly soft. He licked, sucked, learned the shape of her with his tongue. Her hands tangled in his messy hair, holding him there, her hips shifting under him, a restless movement. He could feel the heat of her through both their pants, right against his aching cock. He ground down, a slow, desperate roll of his hips, and she moaned.
His hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her sweats. He hesitated, his palm flat against her lower belly. He could feel the tension there, the slight tremble in her muscles. He looked up, met her eyes. Her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling fast.
“Here?” he whispered.
She nodded, her shoulder length hair brushing her cheeks. “Yes.”
He hesitated for half a second, searching her face one last time. When she nodded softly, he hooked his fingers carefully into the waistband of her sweats, and eased both them and the rest of her swimsuit down her hips. His hands still shook a little, betraying every nerve he was trying to hide.
She lifted her hips to help him, and then she was bare. The night air brushed against her skin, cool against the lingering warmth of the rooftop, and the last of the daylight caught the neat thatch of dark hair between her thighs. He could smell her—a warm, musky scent that made his head swim. He had to touch. Had to.
His hands went back to her breasts, cupping them like he was trying to memorize their weight. He’d seen them in his dad’s hidden magazines, and in his head a thousand times, but this—the soft give of her flesh, the way her nipple tightened under his thumb, the faint blue veins just beneath her pale skin—this was a different religion.
He bent and took one into his mouth again, sucking hard, and her back arched off the blanket with a sharp gasp.
“Mike.”
Her hands fisted in his hair as he switched to the other breast, laving it with his tongue. She moaned, a low, broken sound that went straight to his cock. He ground his hips down against her bare thigh, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against her smooth skin. The friction was maddening, not enough. He did it again, a slow, deliberate roll, and she met the movement, her own hips lifting to press against him.
They found a rhythm, clumsy and desperate. The wet sound of his mouth on her breast, the rustle of the blanket, the choked-off noises she made every time his erection pressed against her. He could feel the heat of her pussy so close, just beside his hip, and the scent of her—musky and deep—filled his head. He was drowning in it.
“I need—” he gasped against her skin, his voice ragged. “I need to feel you.”
He shifted, fumbling with his own jeans until the button gave. The zipper was a struggle, his fingers shaking. He shoved the denim down his hips just enough, freeing his cock. It sprang out, hard and flushed, the tip wet. The cool air was a shock as he positioned himself over her, his knees between her thighs, and looked down. Her brown eyes were huge, her lips swollen from his kisses.
He lowered himself, his cock sliding against her inner thigh, leaving a damp streak. He guided himself to her entrance, the head nudging against her folds. She was slick, so goddamn slick. The sensation made him groan. He pressed forward, just an inch, and felt her body give, a hot, tight resistance that made his vision blur.
“Okay?” he whispered, his forehead against hers. He was shaking.
She nodded, her breath coming in short puffs and mingling with his. Her hands came up to frame his face. “Yes. More.”
He pushed slowly. The stretch was immense, a burning pressure that made her gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders. He felt her body open for him, a gradual, yielding heat that swallowed him inch by inch. He kept going until he was fully inside, buried to the hilt, their hips pressed together. He stopped, panting, feeling her clench around him in startled pulses.
“El.” Her name was a prayer and a curse. The reality of being inside her locked his joints. He was afraid to move, afraid this perfect, impossible fullness would break.
He pressed his forehead against hers, sweating running down the side of his face.
She shifted beneath him, a tiny adjustment, and the movement made him see stars. “Mike,” she breathed, her eyes searching his. “I feel… full.”
He began to move then. A shallow withdrawal, then a slow slide back in. The wet sound was obscene. He did it again, setting a tentative rhythm. Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. The angle changed, and she cried out, a real cry this time, her head tipping back.
He fucked her like that, slow and deep, each thrust a discovery. The way her breath hitched. The way her cunt gripped him tighter when he went deep. The sweat beading on her upper lip. He was clumsy, his rhythm faltering, but it didn’t matter to her. Nothing existed but this: the heat, the slide, her eyes on his in the gathering dark.
The rhythm broke. His hips stuttered, then drove into her, harder. The slap of skin against skin echoed off the rooftop’s low walls. Her gasp was sharp, punched from her lungs, and her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper on the next thrust.
“El.” Her name was a groan, torn from somewhere raw in his chest. He couldn’t think, could only feel—the slick, hot clutch of her around his cock, the sweat-slick slide of her stomach against his, the way her nails scored his back. He fucked her faster, losing the careful, shallow pace, chasing a feeling that was coiling tight and desperate in his gut.
Her head thrashed side to side on the blanket, her hair sticking to her damp temples. “Mike—please, more—”
He obeyed, his thrusts turning rough, urgent. The world narrowed to the joining of their bodies, to the wet sound of his cock plunging into her, over and over. He was shaking, his arms trembling where they braced beside her head, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Her whole body suddenly went rigid beneath him, a high, broken cry tearing from her throat.
Her pussy clenched around him, a sudden, rhythmic pulsing that milked his cock. The sensation was blinding. His rhythm shattered into frantic, shallow drives as her climax ripped through her, her heels digging into the small of his back.
“I’m— fuck, El, I’m gonna—” The warning was a ragged gasp. The coil in his belly snapped. Heat surged up his spine, white-hot and inevitable. He buried himself deep inside her and came, a raw, guttural sound tearing from his throat as his cock jerked, emptying into her in hot, pulsing waves.
He collapsed onto her, his full weight pressing her into the soft blanket, his face buried in the sweaty hollow of her neck. He was panting, shuddering, his mind empty. Her heart hammered against his chest, a frantic echo of his own.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The gritty feel of tar paper under the blanket. Birds chirping in the distance. The cool night air on his sweat-slick back. He was still inside her, softening, and the reality of it—the wet, intimate heat—made his throat close.
He shifted his weight, careful, and slipped out of her. A wet, warm trickle followed, leaking onto her thigh and the blanket beneath them. The scent of sex and sweat hung thick in the air between them.
She was quiet, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. Her doe eyes were open, fixed on the darkening sky above them. He watched her, the panic starting to creep back in at the edges of the blissful numbness. Did he hurt her? Was it okay? Was she disap—
Her hand found his where it lay limp on the blanket. Her fingers laced through his, tight. She turned her head, her cheek against the blanket, and looked at him. A slow, small smile touched her swollen lips.
Mike leaned his forehead against hers, his breath still ragged. His hand drifted from her hip, up the curve of her waist, and found her breast again. He cupped it, his thumb brushing over her nipple.
El laughed, a soft, breathy sound that vibrated against his lips. “You really like them.”
“I can’t help it,” he whispered, his voice rough. He rolled his hips against her, a slow, deliberate grind. His softening cock slid through the wetness on her thigh, a slick, intimate friction that made her gasp. He squeezed her breast gently, feeling the weight of it fill his palm, the nipple pebbling under his touch.
She arched into his hand, her own hips meeting his lazy thrust. The movement was different now—not the desperate drive to finish, but something slower, greedy. She wanted the feeling to last. Her hand came up to cover his, pressing it more firmly against her.
“Show me,” she murmured, her mischievous eyes dark in the twilight. “How you like them.”
Mike swallowed as he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder when she moaned. He used his tongue, tracing circles, and his other hand found her other breast, pinching the peak between his thumb and forefinger. He worshipped them, mouth and hands, until she was squirming beneath him, her breaths coming in short, sharp puffs.
Her hands tangled in his messy hair, not pushing, just holding. She ground against him in earnest now, the wet slide of her cunt against his hip a blatant, heated rhythm. The scent of her—of them—rose between them, musky and deep.
“Mike.”
He lifted his head. A string of saliva connected his lips to her glistening skin for a second before it broke. “Yeah?”
“I feel…” She searched for the word, her brow furrowing. “Empty for you.”
The words landed in his gut. He knew what she meant. The perfect, shocking fullness was gone, leaving a hollow ache. He shifted, sliding down her body. He kissed the soft plane of her stomach, the jut of her hip bone. He settled between her thighs.
The sight of her there, glistening and swollen, his own release still leaking from her, made his breath catch. He looked up the length of her body. Her chest was flushed, her eyes watching him, wide and trusting.
He lowered his mouth.
His tongue found her clit, a slow, flat stroke. She jerked, a sharp cry escaping her. He did it again, learning her shape, her taste—salt and musk and something uniquely El. He licked into her, tasting himself mixed with her, and her thighs trembled on either side of his head.
“Oh.” Her voice was a shattered thing. Her hands fisted in the blanket. “Mike—that—”
He didn’t stop. He explored her with his mouth, every fold, every sensitive spot, until her moans were a continuous, pleading stream. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and she clenched around him instantly, her back bowing off the ground.
“Please,” she begged, her hips lifting to meet his mouth. “Please, please.”
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying steady pressure, his fingers pumping slowly inside her. Her climax built quickly, a tight coil he could feel in the tension of her thighs, in the broken rhythm of her breaths. He didn’t let up.
It broke over her silently at first—a sharp shiver that ran through her whole body, her mouth falling open around a breathless gasp. Then the sound finally escaped her, a high keening wail that carried out into the night as she curled tighter against him. Her cunt pulsed around his fingers, a frantic, fluttering rhythm, and he kept his mouth on her, gentling his touch as she rode it out, until she collapsed back onto the blanket, boneless and gasping.
He crawled back up her body, wiping his mouth on his forearm. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. She kissed him back, lazy and deep.
“I didn’t know about that,” she whispered conspiratorially against his mouth.
“No?” he asked, his voice thick. “Did you like it?”
He gathered her against him, her back to his front, wrapping both his arms around her and tugging the blanket higher around their shoulders. The night air had cooled, but she felt warm against him, solid and real.
“Yes,” she murmured, smiling a little as she settled into him. “I did.”
Her breathing evened out, slow and deep. He pressed his nose into the damp hair at the nape of her neck, inhaling the scent of her. His hand rested on her stomach, over the place he’d just been inside her. He felt the gentle rise and fall of her dozing.
The panic waited, a cold shape in the dark at the edge of the roof. Suddenly, it was all he could think. The military. Vecna. Tomorrow. He closed his eyes tighter, holding her. He had this. For now, he had this.
He pressed his lips to the damp skin behind her ear. “El.” His voice was a low rasp in the dark. “Wake up.”
She stirred, a soft, sleepy sound escaping her. Her body shifted against his, her bare backside pressing into the hard line of his renewed erection. He hadn’t even realized he was fully hard again, but the feel of her skin had done it, a relentless, physical demand.
“I need you again,” he whispered, the confession hot against her neck. “Is that okay?”
She turned her head against the blanket, brown eyes blinking open, hazy with exhaustion in the dim light. Mike knew he should let her sleep—tomorrow would take everything out of both of them—but the thought of putting even an inch of distance between them suddenly felt unbearable.
So instead he shifted closer, careful and quiet, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “Sorry,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound very sorry at all. More helpless than anything.
El’s expression softened immediately. Sleepy as she was, she still reached for him on instinct, fingers curling loosely around his wrist before tugging him closer.
“Don’t be sorry,” she murmured, her voice thick. “I want you too.”
His hand slid from her stomach then, down through the coarse hair between her legs. She was still wet, slick from his mouth and his release earlier. He pushed two fingers into her, slowly, feeling her inner muscles clench in sleepy surprise.
Then she felt him—his fingers inside her, his cock rigid against her back—and a slow, lazy smile touched her lips. She pushed her hips into his hand, taking his fingers deeper.
He withdrew his hand, bringing his wet fingers to his mouth. He tasted them, watching her face. Her eyes followed the movement, darkening. He shifted behind her, his skin slick against her bare skin. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock nudging through her slick folds. He didn’t push in yet, just held it there, letting her feel the pressure, the promise.
“Like this,” he breathed, one arm hooking under her head, the other hand splaying possessively over her stomach to pull her closer against him. “From behind.”
She nodded, her cheek rubbing against the soft blanket. She reached back with one hand, her fingers finding his hip, gripping him. An invitation. A pull.
He pushed forward. The slide was easier this time, a smooth, wet glide as her body opened for him. He sank in to the hilt, a low groan tearing from his throat as her heat enveloped him completely. She was so tight around him, her cunt gripping his cock in a velvet vise. He stayed there, buried, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, just breathing her in.
“Mike,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his hip.
He began to move. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in, filling her again. The angle was different, deeper. Each thrust rubbed the length of him against a spot inside her that made her whimper, a high, broken sound lost to the crisp night air.
His hand on her stomach slid lower, his fingers finding her clit once again. It was swollen, sensitive. He circled it with his thumb, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Her whimpers turned into choked moans, her body arching back against his, driving him deeper. The wet, rhythmic slap of their skin joined the night’s distant soundtrack.
“Tell me,” he grunted, his mouth against her shoulder. His thrusts were losing their careful pace, turning harder, more urgent. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” El panted, the words rushed and earnest. “I want you. Please, Mike—”
He fucked her harder hearing her words, his own control fraying. The coil in his gut tightened, a white-hot wire. He could feel her clenching around him, her breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps. His thumb worked her clit faster.
She came with a silent, shuddering intensity, her whole body seizing. Her cunt clamped down on his cock in rhythmic, fluttering pulses, pulling the climax from him. He drove into her one last, deep time and held, his own release surging up his spine and erupting. He groaned, long and ragged, as he came, his hips jerking with each hot pulse.
They collapsed together onto the blanket, a tangled, sweating heap. His arm was trapped under her, gone numb. He didn’t care. He nuzzled the sweat-damp hair at her temple, his lips against her skin.
After a minute, she shifted. He slipped out of her with a wet, soft plop. She turned in his arms, facing him, eyes searching his in the near-dark. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. He didn’t speak. The cold shape of tomorrow was still there, waiting at the edge of the roof. But right now, her taste was on his tongue, her scent was in his lungs, and her body was warm and pliant against his.
Mike turned his face into her chest, his cheek finding the soft swell of her breast. She made a small, contented sound and her arms came around him, cradling his head against her. Her skin was hot, a living furnace against his own. The blanket had slipped to their waists, and the night air was cool on his sweaty back, but where they touched was pure heat.
He could feel her heartbeat under his ear, a steady, reassuring rhythm. His own breathing slowed to match it. For a long moment, there was just that: the beat, the heat, and her fingers idly tracing patterns on his shoulder.
Then his hand began to move. It slid down, over the curve of her stomach, through the damp thatch of hair. He found her folds, still swollen and slick. He pressed the flat of his palm against her, and she shifted, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
He pushed a finger inside her. She was so wet it was a soft, gushing welcome, her inner muscles yielding instantly. He added a second finger, curling them gently. The heat inside her was intense, a slick, clinging embrace. He could feel the residual pulse of her last orgasm, a faint, fluttering echo around his knuckles.
“Mike,” she whispered, her voice drowsy but her thighs still fell open a little wider.
He began to move his fingers, a slow, exploratory rhythm. He wasn’t trying to make her come this time. He just needed to feel it, the proof of what they’d done, the intimate, messy reality of her. The wet sound was obscene in the quiet. He loved it.
He turned his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her breast, his tongue finding her nipple. It peaked instantly under his attention. He sucked gently, his fingers pumping in and out of her in that same lazy tempo.
Her hand left his shoulder and slid into his messy hair, holding him to her. Her hips began a subtle, answering rock against his hand, taking his fingers deeper. Her breathing changed, growing shallower.
“Can’t get enough,” he mumbled against her skin, the words muffled. It was true. The taste of her in his mouth, the feel of her around his fingers, the smell of sex and sweat on her skin for the first time—it was a feedback loop, each sensation demanding another. He crooked his fingers, searching for that spot he’d found earlier with his mouth.
Her back arched off the blanket when he found it. A sharp gasp. There.
He focused on that spot, applying steady pressure with each inward stroke. Her moans were low, continuous, vibrating through the chest his face was buried in. Her grip on his hair tightened and he could feel her pussy beginning to clench around his fingers in earnest, the rhythm of her hips growing more urgent, less controlled.
He didn’t speed up. He kept the same deep, measured pace, fucking her with his hand while his mouth worked her breast. He wanted to live inside this building tension, to stretch it until neither of them could breathe. Her whimpers were pleas now, wordless and desperate. He felt the exact moment the coil snapped.
Her climax washed through her silently at first, a full-body rigidity, her mouth open in a soundless cry against the top of his head. Then it broke into a series of soft, choked sobs as her cunt convulsed around his fingers, a hot pulsing that seemed to go on and on. He held her through it, his fingers still inside her, his mouth gentle on her breast, until she went limp beneath him, boneless and spent.
She reached for him then, her hand cupping his jaw, pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him deeply, and when she pulled back, her thumb stroked his lower lip.
“I love you,” she said, her words holding everything.
He buried his face back into the hollow of her neck, breathing her in. The cold shape at the edge of the roof felt very far away. Here, there was only heat, and her heartbeat under his ear, and the wet, claiming truth on his skin. “I love you so much, El.”
Her hand, resting on his shoulder, drifted down. Her fingers traced the line of his spine, the knobs of his vertebrae, the dip at the small of his back. They slid lower, over the curve of his ass, and then around his hip. Her touch was exploratory, curious. Her palm flattened against his lower stomach, and then her fingers dipped into the coarse hair there. They found him, hard and heavy against his own thigh. Her breath hitched, a soft, surprised sound in the dark.
Mike went very still. His own hand, still resting between her legs, stopped its idle tracing. Every nerve in his body focused on the feel of her fingers wrapping tentatively around the base of his cock. Her grip was gentle, unsure. He let out a shaky exhale against her neck.
“El,” he whispered, the word rough.
She didn’t say anything. Her thumb brushed over the slick head, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there. He twitched in her hand, a full-body jolt he couldn’t suppress. Her fingers tightened, just a fraction. She began to move her hand, a slow, tentative stroke from root to tip. Her touch was clumsy, her rhythm uneven, but it was her. It was El touching him, and it was the most electrifying thing he’d ever felt.
He turned his face, nuzzling into her neck, his lips parting against her skin. He didn’t kiss her, just breathed, his own hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust into her fist. “Yeah,” he breathed, a broken sound of encouragement. “Just like that.”
She learned fast. Her strokes grew more confident, her grip firming. She explored the length of him, the thick vein on the underside, the sensitive ridge beneath the head. Her other hand came up to cradle his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek as she worked him, as if she needed to touch his face while she did this. The dual sensation—her hand on his cock, her hand on his face—unraveled him completely.
He was already so close. The heat of her, the smell of sex on her skin, the memory of her coming around his fingers just minutes ago—it had him balanced on a knife’s edge. His own fingers curled inside her, a reflexive clench. “I’m gonna—” he gasped, the warning torn from him.
“Okay,” she whispered, her lips against his temple. Her hand didn’t stop. It moved faster, her thumb circling the head with each pass.
He came with a choked-off groan, his body bowing against hers. His release pulsed over her fingers and his own stomach, hot and sudden. He shuddered through it, his face buried in the hollow of her shoulder, his own fingers still buried deep inside her, holding on as the waves crashed through him. She held him through it, her hand slowing to a gentle rhythm until he was spent and soft in her grasp.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling. He was boneless. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers from her and lifted his head, his brown eyes finding hers in the gloom. Her hand was still wrapped loosely around him, glistening. He saw no hesitation in her gaze, only a quiet, profound focus.
He guided her hand to rest on his chest instead, over his pounding heart. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she lay half on top of him, her head on his shoulder. The night air was cool on his damp skin, and he stared up at the dark sky, feeling the solid, terrifying weight of the future settle back onto his ribs. But beneath it, warmer and more immediate, was the weight of her.
He rolled her onto her stomach, his hands on her hips. The blanket was scratchy under their knees. He knelt behind her, his cock already hard again, pressing against the curve of her ass. He guided himself to her entrance, the head nudging against slick, swollen folds.
“Okay?” His voice was a raw scrape.
She nodded into the blanket, her chestnut hair fanning out. Her back was a pale, graceful curve in the dark.
He pushed inside.
The stretch was different this time—deeper, more consuming. He watched himself disappear into her, inch by slow inch, her body yielding with a soft, wet sound. He bottomed out, his hips flush against her ass, and they both went still. He could feel every pulse and clench of her cunt around him, a hot, tight sheath. He leaned over her, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders, his chest not quite touching her back and began to move.
A slow, dragging withdrawal, then a hard, deep thrust back in. The slap of skin was louder now, almost obscene. Her whimper was muffled by the blanket.
He fucked her with a steady, relentless pace, each thrust driving her forward a little on the ground. He could see the muscles in her back tense and release, could feel the heat building between them, a slick furnace. One of his hands left the blanket and slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit.
She cried out, a sharp, broken sound. Her body arched, pushing back against him, taking him even deeper. His rhythm faltered, became ragged. He rubbed tight, frantic circles against her as he pistoned into her, the wet sounds of their joining filling the night air.
“Mike—I’m—” Her words dissolved into a choked gasp. Her pussy clenched around him, a sudden, violent spasm that ripped a groan from his throat. He felt her come, the internal fluttering sucking his cock, and it tipped him over the edge.
He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his own release tore through him. He emptied into her with a guttural sound, his hips jerking, his fingers still pressed against her throbbing clit as she shuddered through the last waves of her climax.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. His cock pulsed inside her, spent. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged unison, before pulling apart.
She stayed quiet for a long time. Then her hand lifted slowly to cover his, her fingers threading through his and squeezing hard enough to say everything neither of them could put into words.
Above them, the sky was hazy and washed dull with distant light, the stars barely visible through it. The world beyond the rooftop kept moving, unaware of them curled together there—stripped raw by fear and love and the desperate need to hold onto each other a little longer, as if closeness alone could keep the dark away.
He stared up at the sky full of stars, his heart hammering a frantic, exhausted beat against her ear. The future was still out there, a cold shape in the dark. But here, now, they were just two people who’d found each other in the warmth.
They stayed there until the roof finally cooled beneath them.
El lay curled against his chest beneath the blanket, her fingers still loosely tangled with his. Mike could feel the slow drift of her breathing against his ribs, warm and steady, and every few seconds he pressed another absent kiss into her hair.
Somewhere below them, the radio station creaked softly. Wind moved through the trees. The world kept going, impossibly normal.
Tomorrow, they would walk back into the nightmare.
Tomorrow, she would face Vecna again. They all would, hopefully one last time.
Mike’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick. He tightened his arms around her before the thought could spiral any further.
“Mike?” she murmured sleepily against his chest.
“Nothing,” he whispered immediately. “Go back to sleep.”
But El lifted her head anyway, her brown eyes searching his face in the dark like she could always feel the exact shape of his fear.
“We’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Three waterfalls, remember?”
Mike wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to.
Instead he touched his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. He had to be strong for her. He had to be the hopeful one, who trusted they would come out the other side together.
And still…
“I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to you,” he admitted, the words finally breaking loose, cracked open and raw.
Her expression changed instantly—softening into something unbearably tender. She reached up and held his face between both hands.
“We always find our way back to each other,” she whispered.
His throat closed.
For a long moment neither of them moved. The fear was still there, hanging over the rooftop like a storm cloud waiting to break, but underneath it was something stronger too: her heartbeat under his palm, her breath mingling with his, the stubborn certainty that whatever happened tomorrow, this—them—was real.
Mike kissed her one last time, slow and aching.
Then he pulled the blanket tighter around them and held her through the rest of the night while the stars burned quietly overhead.