The barest spark of a beginning neither of us planned for.
The shadows driftlazily across the walls, shifting with the flicker of candlelight. The air carries a thin ribbon of warm wax and the faintest trace of coconut, soft enough to go unnoticed unless you’re already breathing it in.
The silence between us is thick, but not oppressive—more like a cocoon than a void. Estella adjusts her position just slightly, and the bathwater stirs, sending a few bubbles breaking against the surface. They cling to our skin, hiding most of us beneath the hot water as we sit together in the deep tub, neither of us brave enough to be the first to speak.
My hand stays in her hair, fingers drifting through the buttery strands, combing gently, smoothing them back, letting their softness anchor me. She melts beneath my touch, her energy seeping into me, softening something I hadn’t realized was so tightly wound.
I know I say this too often when I’m with Estella, but my mind refuses to accept the reality of her—ofus. Every time I register the weight of this moment, I feel like I have to reaffirm it, name it, touch it, breathe it, just to understand what the fuck is happening beneath my own skin.
Because lately, I’ve learned far too much about myself. And the weight of that truth sits like a tectonic shift—my entire world grinding, realigning, breaking and reforming.
Yet somehow, it feels right.
Like everything that cracked was supposed to crack. Like this was the only outcome that ever made sense.
Estella drags one fingertip slowly across my chest, watching the rise and fall of my breathing with a softness that could splita man open. Her finger glides toward my heart, stopping at the long scar that runs across it. I look down at her, feeling the heat of her curiosity, radiating from her skin like light seeping through a closed door.
“Do you ever stop?” she asks, the words drifting out of her like a slow exhale.
My brows draw together as I try to understand. “Stop what?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her finger traces the scar with featherlight pressure, and in her touch, the old wound feels almost alive again, pulsing faintly, as if acknowledging her attention.
“Thinking,” she says softly. With her touch still on the scar, she lifts her chin until her eyes meet mine beneath the dim light. “You’re always deep in your head,” she murmurs. “Even when you’re here with me.Especiallywhen you’re with me.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Thinking keeps me sane,” I say, and the moment the words leave my mouth, something inside me clenches.
It’s not exactly discomfort—more like a storm of sensation collecting under my skin, millions of tiny impulses pushing me toward something I can’t name. My muscles tighten as I try, once again, to make sense of myself.
“I don’t believe that,” she whispers, studying me. “It feels like thinking keeps yousafe. Like if you let go, even for a second, something bad would happen.”
Her words stir something in me—something raw, something I don’t want touched. A slow, needling discomfort pushes up from beneath my ribs. I swallow again, feeling a knot of emotion lodge itself in my throat. It sits there, immovable, refusing to let me simply exist in the moment with her like a normal fucking person.
“Can I ask you something?” she murmurs, her voice soft and delicate, like a whisper threading itself through the dark.
She looks impossibly calm right now—soft, composed, drenched in candlelight. As if nothing in the world could possibly touch her.
As if she isn’t inches away from dismantling me with a sentence.
“Ask me anything you want,” I say, bending down to press a small kiss to the top of her head.
Estella reaches for the wooden board beside the tub. Her fingers pinch two ruffled French fries, dragging them through a generous streak of ketchup before lifting one to my mouth. I take it from her fingers, grateful for the small distraction.
She eats the other, then clears her throat. “You always crave control, Dante,” she says quietly. “Why?”
My jaw tightens instantly. Heat floods through me, too fast, too hot, my discomfort colliding with the restless churn of thoughts I’ve been trying to outrun all night. It forms a pulsing core of anxiety deep in my chest, expanding, pushing at my ribs.
Whydo I feel like this?
Why does that question cut so deep?
Thoughts swirl—too many, each one heavier than the last. She’s peeling back pieces of me I’d bolted shut, looking at parts of me I don’t show anyone, not even myself.
She’s seeing something I don’t want to see.
“I don’t know,” I say, the lie landing flat between us. It’s only partially false, but I can’t reach for the truth; it’s hovering just out of reach, brushing against the tip of my tongue like a ghost. “It’s just how I am.”
I reach for the wooden board, fingers closing around the cool stem of a wine glass. I take a sip, letting the warmth slide down my throat, trying to steady myself against the mounting pressure in my chest.
