His gaze drops to the soaked shirt clinging to my frame. To my lips. Then they rise again, slow and unhurried, like he’s drinking in the sight of me but trying so hard not to give in.
When our eyes meet again, the tension cracks something deep inside me.
“I wasn’t scared of you,” I whisper, voice fragile, but certain. “Not really. It was the dream. Not you. Never you.”
He says nothing. Just watches me silently.
And the silence is loud.
“Say something to me, Alex. Please.”
His jaw clenches, but his eyes soften a bit. Then, finally, voice low and tight,
“I need to know what they are.”
I freeze.
He takes a step closer, water running in rivulets down his chest.
“Those dreams. They’re not just dreams, are they?” His voice is quieter now. “They’re memories. Something happened to you.” He swallows. “What was it?”
My throat bobs, and I look away.
The words are there. Caged. Raw. But I can’t let them out yet. Not like this.
Not here.
Not when his eyes have finally softened.
Not when the air between us feels like a fragile thread holding something sacred.
I know I’ll tell him. I want to tell him.
But not tonight.
Because if I let the pain spill now, it’ll drown the part of me that just wants to feel him, this version of him. The one who’s trying so hard to stay still, to hold himself back, like he thinks touching me will break me.
But I don’t want that kind of Alex.
I don’t want the version of him that hesitates.
Not with me.
I want his hands on my skin. I want to feel his warmth, his strength—not pity, not distance. I want to show him I’m not made of glass.
So I look back up at him, chest rising with the weight of everything I can’t say yet.
I just want him.
All of him.
And I need him to see that, not just in words, but in the way I reach for him, in the way my hands rise slowly, trembling as I cup his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my palms, slick with water, and I tilt my face up to him—eyes wide, heart cracked open.
I want him to see it.
The trust.
The ache.
