Her earnestness disarms me, makes me want to match it with honesty of my own.
"Intimacy requires vulnerability," I say finally. "And vulnerability hasn't felt safe. Not for a long time."
"Does it feel safe now?" she asks, so quietly I almost miss it.
I look at her and feel something shift inside me, plates of armor moving, revealing tender places long protected.
"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "But I'm still talking, aren't I?"
Her smile in response is like sunrise breaking through clouds.
"There's something else you should know," she says suddenly, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of nervousness. "About me."
I wait, sensing the weight of whatever confession comes next.
"I've never been with anyone," she says simply. "Intimately, I mean."
The words land like stones dropped in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. I stare at her, certain I've misunderstood.
"You're—" I begin, then stop, unsure how to phrase it.
"A virgin, yes." She says it without embarrassment, meeting my gaze directly.
My mind races, trying to process this information alongside everything else I know about her. It doesn't compute, not with the modern world as I understand it.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, though I think I know the answer, an answer that both terrifies and exhilarates me.
"Because I'm attracted to you," she says, confirming my suspicion with a directness that takes my breath away. "And I think you're attracted to me too, despite all the reasons you wish you weren't."
I should deny it. Should establish boundaries, maintain distance, be the responsible adult. Instead, I find myself asking: "What reasons do you imagine those are?"
"My age," she begins, counting on her fingers. "My inexperience. My father's connection to you. Your self-imposed isolation. The temporary nature of my stay here. Did I miss any?"
"Those cover the highlights," I say dryly, attempting to mask how deeply her words affect me. "All very good reasons why anything beyond conversation would be a mistake."
"Would it?" she challenges quietly. "Or is that what you're telling yourself because it's safer than admitting what you actually want?"
I stand abruptly, moving to the fireplace to add another log, needing distance, needing something to do with my hands that isn't reaching for her.
"What I want isn't the point," I say finally, back still turned. "What's right is the point."
"And who decides what's right?" she asks. "Social convention? Some arbitrary rule about age differences? Or the people actually involved?"
I turn to face her, the fire now crackling with renewed vigor behind me. "You're very young," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"I'm twenty-six," she counters. "Old enough to run a restaurant, manage a staff, earn critical acclaim. Old enough to know my own mind and make my own choices." She pauses, then adds softly: "Old enough to know what I want."
And what she wants isme. I clench my fists at my sides, holding myself in place through sheer force of will.
"Sage," I begin, but she interrupts.
"I'm not asking for promises," she says. "Or declarations. Or anything beyond this night, this storm, this moment of connection that neither of us expected." Her voice drops, becomes more intimate. "But I am asking you to be honest. With yourself. With me."
"I'm too old for you," I say, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"That's not an answer," she replies. "That's an evasion."
"Yes," I say finally, the admission dragged from some deep place within me. "I am attracted to you. Despite all the reasons I shouldn't be. Despite knowing better." I meet her gaze directly. "Happy now?"
