“There’s the normal kind,” I say quietly. “The sort you get used to. The one that’s just… silence and space. I thought that was all there was. But lately, it’s been different. There’s lonely, and then there’s lonely while wishing you were with someone. Since that week in St Claire, it’s been that second one. Because being on my own suddenly meant not being with you.”
I chance a glance at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are studying me intently.
“I used to make myself wait to reply to your emails,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just so I wouldn’t seem… too keen. I’d write back straight away and then delete it, telling myself to wait an hour. Or a day. Sometimes I’d even draft three versions before sending one that sounded normal.”
A small, nervous laugh escapes me. “And that time I didn’t reply for two weeks… it wasn’t because I was busy. I was trying so hard to act like I had a life, like I wasn’t sitting there refreshing my inbox. By the end of it, I’d tied myself in knots over what to say, because every sentence sounded likeplease don’t think I’m pathetic.”
I swallow hard, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s ridiculous, I know. But I didn’t want you to think I was waiting for you, even though I was.”
When I finally look up, his eyes are steady on mine. There’s no laughter there, no teasing, just quiet understanding that sets off a thousand butterflies in my stomach.
“I know it’s not the most glamorous confession,” I say softly. “But it’s the truth.”
I take a shaky breath and step back, desperate to escape before I humiliate myself any further. “I should go,” I murmur, already turning towards the door.
But his hand closes lightly around my wrist. Not stopping me, not pulling—just enough to keep me there.
“Eve,” he says quietly.
I freeze.
When I look at him again, he’s closer. The light from the lamp softens the sharp lines of his face, but his eyes are intent, searching.
“Can I ask you something?”
I nod, even though my throat feels too tight for words.
He hesitates for half a second, then says, “When you say you missed me… was that as a friend, or as something more?”
My heartbeat stumbles.
There’s no teasing in his voice, no trace of that cheeky humour he always hides behind. Just honesty. It makes it impossible to lie, even to myself.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. My brain is shouting at me to run, to deflect, to joke, to do anything but stand here in a pjs and bare feet while he looks at me like that.
Instead, I whisper, “More.”
The word feels terrifying and freeing at once.
Aaron’s fingers tighten slightly around my wrist—just a fraction—then loosen again, giving me the space to choose what happens next.
The word still hangs between us when my throat tightens again. I want to stop talking, but everything that’s been locked away for years feels like it’s spilling out all at once.
“I don’t really know what to do next,” I admit quietly. “I’ve only ever had one relationship… if a few dates and a disappointing sexual encounter counts as a relationship. One night with a guy I barely knew twenty years ago. And nothing since.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “I don’t even know if I’d be any good at it.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and that makes it worse somehow. Because the truth is, saying it out loud makes me feel small.
“I know it’s pathetic,” I whisper. “I’m shy, I overthink everything, and I panic at the stupidest things. I’m basically the human version of a caution sign. And that’s not what men want. They want someone confident, someone who knows what they’re doing. Not… me.”
I look down, unable to meet his eyes, waiting for the silence to turn heavy.
For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sound of my breathing, uneven and shallow. I can’t look at him. I can’t bear to see the expression that confirms what I already know.
Then his hand moves. He reaches out and tilts my chin up, gentle but firm enough that I can’t look away. My heart stumbles.
His eyes are steady on mine, warm and impossibly calm. “Eve,” he says quietly, “I don’t care what other men want.”
