But lying in bed after he leaves each night, I find myself wishing he would stay. Every evening ends the same way—his body worshipping mine until I’m trembling, his reverence undoing me in ways I never thought sex could. Then his quiet footsteps slipping out before morning, leaving the bed colder than I want to admit.
Part of me wants him to stay, and not just for the sex—though that’s admittedly spectacular—but for the quiet conversations, the way he listens when I talk about my academic work, the comfortable silence that feels like coming home. And the way this obviously private man has opened himself to me, layer by layer, until I know as much about him as if we’d known each other for decades.
It should terrify me, the way he’s already inside my walls, claiming space I swore I’d never give again. Instead, the fear tangles with a hunger I can’t quiet, the two of them indistinguishable in the dark.
Now, during morning self-defense training, Maya has us working on situational awareness exercises. I’m supposed to be scanning for potential threats, but my attention keeps drifting to where Quintus repairs equipment near the shed. His movements are economical and precise, every motion serving a purpose.
“Earth to Nicole,” Karen laughs, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Maya asked you a question.” She smirks. “You’ve had that blissed-out glow all week. Don’t bother denying it.”
“Sorry. What was the question?”
Maya’s expression is knowing. “I asked what you’d do if someone grabbed you from behind while you were distracted.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m so busy watching Quintus that I’ve completely failed at the awareness exercise designed to keep me safe.
“I’d probably get grabbed because I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit, earning laughter from the group.
“Exactly. Distraction makes us vulnerable.” Maya’s eyes find mine meaningfully. “Sometimes the most dangerous threats are the ones that make us feel safe.”
Her words hit harder than they should. Is that what’s happening here? Am I mistaking emotional connection for safety, setting myself up for another kind of captivity?
Later, in my cabin, my laptop screen gleams with the promise of order: a grant proposal assignment complex enough to demand every ounce of mental energy I possess.
For six hours, I immerse myself and allow the steady rhythm of research to pull me back into myself. Words and ideas come easily, and for the first time in days, my brain feels sharp instead of scattered.
When I finally submit the proposal at three in the morning, I feel like myself again. Competent, focused, intellectually capable. Not some lovesick woman whose brain turns to mush at the sight of battle scars and gentle hands.
Although Professor Muransky certainly hasn’t had time to grade last night’s paper, I receive a message the next morning about a different assignment. “Your research methodology and policy analysis exceed expectations for this course level.”
The achievement should feel triumphant. Instead, it feels hollow. Empty. Like celebrating alone in a restaurant where all the other tables are full of couples sharing their joy.
I catch myself wanting to tell Quintus about the grade, wanting to see his face light up with genuine pride in my accomplishment. The realization makes my chest clench with panic. When did his approval start mattering more than my own?
On a call to my daughter, I barely have time to tell her about the message before she turns the conversation and asks, “You’re falling for him, aren’t you, Mom?”
Ava’s direct question catches me mid-sip of coffee, and I nearly choke on the hot liquid. Her face on my phone screen is gentle but knowing, wearing the expression she gets when she’s figured out something I’m still trying to hide from myself.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“Why is it complicated?”
Setting down my coffee cup, I scrutinize my daughter—this wise, confident young woman who somehow grew up despite having Scott as a father. “I just found myself, Ava. I can’t lose me again.”
“What if loving him doesn’t mean losing yourself?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. “You don’t understand. When I love someone, I disappear. I become what they need instead of who I am. I did it with your father for twenty-five years.”
“Mom.” Ava’s voice is patient but firm. “You’re not the same person who married Dad. You’re stronger now. Haven’t you proven that to yourself over and over these past few months?”
“Have I? Because right now I feel like I’m one good conversation away from reorganizing my entire life around someone else’s needs… again.”
“Or maybe you’re one good conversation away from realizing that healthy relationships expand your world instead of limiting it.” Ava leans closer to her camera. “Dad made you smaller because your strength threatened him. This guy—does he do that?”
Her question claws at the tenderest part of me, the part that still doubts I can be strong without vanishing into someone else. I think about Quintus encouraging my academic work, making space for my independence without crowding it, respecting my boundaries even when they clearlyfrustrate him. “No. He doesn’t.”
“Then maybe the problem isn’t him. Maybe it’s that you’re terrified of wanting something good because you don’t trust yourself to choose wisely.”
Her words hit like a physical blow. “When did you get so smart?”
