I let Karim’s hand settle in mine, guiding him into the sparse hush of my room. The shadows shift as we draw the curtains, leaving only a sliver of moonlight across the bed—enough to see how hunger and doubt flicker in his eyes.

We don’t speak. The space between us is already thick with memories: old laughter in sunlit deserts, the taste of salt and wind, the ache we buried beneath the weight of loyalty and restraint. I peel back the thin shirt he’s wearing, tracing the lines of muscle and old scars—a map of a life lived in devotion and silence. His breath hitches, and for once I see him stripped of his quiet vigilance—utterly present, wanting. He unbuttons my dress with trembling fingers.

He inhales the scent of my hair, pausing to whisper my name—part prayer, part plea. He presses himself firmly against me. His fingers slip the straps down one shoulder, then the next, the fabric pooling at my feet in silent surrender. He steps back for a moment, breath held, gaze reverent as he takes in the bare curve of my body in the faint moonlit glow.

Karim kneels before me, tracing slow circles along my thighs, skimming up along the line of my underwear. With a look that unmakes me, he hooks his thumbs under the fabric and peels it down. His hands caress the soft skin of my hips and pubis as he bares me completely.

I shiver in the stillness, exposed and alive beneath his eyes. He stands and gathers me to him, our mouths colliding—hungry, searching, unafraid. He lifts me, urgency and awe mingling in his arms as he carries me to the bed. I climb astride him, savouring the delicious reality of his body beneath mine.

We begin slow, reverence stitched into every movement, but the tempo builds quickly—weeks and years of tension blooming into an urgent, heady rhythm. I ride him hard and deep; our bodies find their old language, wordless and trembling, every sigh a remnant of what we’ve both craved and denied. Dakhla all over again.

Karim’s hands clutch my hips as if afraid I might vanish, his voice breaking as I take him again and again. “Please,” he whispers, awe and need tangled together, “don’t stop—Elena, please, again—”

I lose myself in that plea, in his surrender, in the complete honesty of those green, passionate eyes as I move faster—riding him with mounting need and wild relief. He begs for more, and I give it, granting both of us the release and recognition we’ve deferred for so long. The world narrows to skin, heartbeat, the wet, honest friction of bodies finally admitting everything words could not.

After, I collapse against his chest, shivering with release and with a strange, fierce gratitude. He holds me as if he’s prayed for this every night since Dakhla. For a moment, I let myself believe we are safe, that comfort can still exist in the arms of someone who has waited this long, and loved this quietly, for me.

I collapse atop Karim, still shuddering, my breath torn and uneven. My thighs tremble; my whole body is awash with relief and something dangerously close to joy. For a long moment, I lie nestled on top of him—his chest slick with sweat, his dark curls damp, my hair tangled across his chest.

But beneath me, Karim is already stirring again. His hands roam my back, his lips find my shoulder, then the hollow of my throat. There’s a raw, unstoppable hunger in him—the way youth and longing entwine in his low, whispered plea:
“Elena, I’m not done. Please—let me have you again… I don’t want this to end.”

Part of me hesitates—so much gratitude, so much history, the old ache for him never entirely gone. The need is still there, pulsing urgently between my legs, just as wild as before.

And every time—every single time—I am reminded of his stamina and youth. But bloody hell, I always forget my own age until the aftermath taps me on the shoulder, laughing at my foolishness.

Karim rolls us gently, his body reawakening beneath his tenderness, his mouth trailing heat along my lips and down to my nipples, his breath trembling with yearning and awe.

He enters me again, deeper this time, his rhythm insistent, green eyes locked on mine as if he wants to carve this night into memory. Each thrust finds my nerves already tender—the world reduced to gasps, the wet sound of skin on skin, the way my nails score his shoulders. He only moves harder, desperate to please, desperate to belong.

It’s urgent, almost frantic, and as my body starts to shudder anew, I realise I want this: to be adored, devoured, remembered. I let go, letting Karim take me as many times as he can—both of us hungry, greedy, unashamed.

Afterwards, tangled together in the moonlight, he buries his face in my neck and simply breathes me in. I hold him, thinking not of borders or danger, but of that wild, stubborn hope—that sometimes the youngest soul knows best how to worship what has always terrified and drawn me: my own need, answered again and again.

We lie folded together in the dim lamplight, my head pillowed on his chest, his heartbeat wild and unguarded beneath my palm. I feel the aftershocks ebbing, my body aching in all the best ways. Though, honestly, I’m not so sure about tomorrow. Karim runs his hand up my spine, almost reverent, and then he speaks—voice impossibly soft, accent tender but fierce.

“Elena… no matter what happens—no matter who you go to, who you dream about at night—I will always be yours. Always. You know that, don’t you?”

There’s no accusation in it, no plea for reassurance—just truth, hot and simple, woven through every syllable. He is young and bold, and in his world, when you give your devotion, you give it with your whole fire, for good.

I turn my face into his skin, overwhelmed—for an instant wishing I could believe in absolutes. But tonight, I accept it: the fearlessness of his claim, his loyalty burning quietly, sure as any faith.

“I know,” I whisper, letting the words settle between us like an oath. For a while, I let myself be held, allowing his promise to warm the parts of me that are still afraid of needing anyone at all.

Breakfast in the guesthouse is a simple, potent affair: strong coffee, dense black bread on mismatched plates, curls of smoked ham glistening beside pale yellow cheese, and a bowl of quince jam sticky in the morning sun. The four of us gather around the creaking table, the room softly lit by sunlight filtering through muslin curtains. Sandi’s hair is tousled and free, her laughter lighter than the day before; Bartek glows with quiet satisfaction—perhaps even pride—in the way his hand covers hers on the tabletop.

I feel all their glances—the gentle teasing, the sidelong acknowledgement that intimacy is its own currency here, and everyone senses who paid what in the night. Sandi smirks at me over her teacup, eyes alight with amusement and solidarity. Bartek leans back, eyebrows raised in silent congratulations at Karim, who—still young, still flushed from the night—radiates a quiet confidence, a new gravity. He meets my gaze only once; there’s a flash of reverence and awe, and then we both look away, heat lingering beneath our skin.

No one says anything direct; in this constellation, privacy is a kindness we offer each other, just as much as bread or jam.

Outside, the first bells are ringing through the valley—signalling not only another day, but the pressing weight of what waits ahead.

I.Ph.