It’s been more than a week since that night he came to my apartment—Since I told him I didn’t know how to be wanted without doubting it. And he had looked at me with nothing but softness and said he’d wait, that he’d go slow. That he wasn’t leaving.
And he hasn’t, and somehow my routine has changed.
He picks me up after class sometimes and takes me to his penthouse, a place that still makes me feel like I shouldn’t breathe too hard in case I break something. We sit close on his giant leather couch, and I teach him sign language. Slowly. Carefully. He’s better at it than he lets on. Pretends to get things wrong just so I’ll reach out and correct him, my fingers curling over his, our palms brushing. He does it to touch me. I know it. He knows I know.
And after that—
We kiss and touch like we’re drowning in each other. Like it’s the only language we’re fluent in. his hands are reverent, greedy, needy, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me, the way I fit against him, the way I shiver when he kisses my neck. And I let him. Every time. Until it’s too much. Until I feel myself wanting more than I’m ready for. Until he says “Stay the night” without saying a word, and I say “Not yet” with my eyes.
He never pressures me. But I see it in his eyes every time I leave, that look like he wants to chase me, pull me back in, hold me there. I wonder if he knows I want that too.
Just… not yet.
Today is different, though; he’s not here to take me to his penthouse. He’s here to take me to his mother.
Two days ago, Davika called me personally. Her voice had been soft but direct, full of warmth as she said she’d love to spend time with me—just me—if I was up for it.
I remember staring at my phone long after the video call ended, the words looping like a song I didn’t quite understand. She wants to hang out with me?
Why?
What could someone like her possibly want from someone like me?
She’s elegant and untouchable—like a woman carved out of silk and sunlight.
And me? I’m still learning how to speak in spaces that were never built for me.
I had looked over at Alex, half-expecting him to laugh, to say it was a joke or a misunderstanding. But all he did was shrug with that unreadable look he always wears when he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Well,” he said, like it was obvious, “you’re her favorite now.”
Her favorite.
The words felt too big in my chest. Too good. Too undeserved.
She had been kind to me during the dinner party, yes—gentle, attentive. But I never expected anything beyond that. People like her don’t usually reach for people like me. Not for friendship. Not for anything.
Still, I said yes.
I step out of the gates and spot Alex’s car parked where it always is.
The windows are tinted, but I can see the outline of him in the driver’s seat. He’s always so still, like he’s carved out of something solid. Unmovable.
My fingers curl tighter around the straps of my backpack as I walk toward him, my heart thudding a little faster with each step.
When I pull the door open and slide into the passenger seat, his scent hits me immediately. Familiar and overwhelming all at once. He turns to face me, those glacier-blue eyes already fixed on mine. Always so intense. Like he sees straight through me.
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
“Hi,” I say softly, my voice barely there. I hate how breathless I sound, but I can’t help it. I still haven’t gotten used to the way he looks at me.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans closer. One of his hands reaches over, wraps around mine gently, and the other slides up to the back of my neck. The heat of his palm sinks into my skin, grounding me.
Then he pulls me in and kisses me.
It’s not rushed, not hungry, but it leaves me breathless anyway. Slow. Deep. His lips move against mine like he’s memorizing the shape of them again. Like he’s reminding me who I belong to.
My body reacts before my brain catches up—heat rippling through me, my eyes fluttering shut, my hand reaching to hold onto the front of his shirt, just to anchor myself. I melt into it, into him.
