I did—slowly, deliberately—aware of how tightly coiled I still felt.He poured the wine himself, deep red catching the light, then took the seat across from me.Distance.Chosen.For a long moment, neither of us spoke.The water lapped gently against the hull, steady and indifferent, like the world hadn’t noticed the fault line opening between us.
“Why did you invite me here?”I asked finally.“You’ve spent weeks disappearing, and now this.”I gestured vaguely around us—the table, the glass, the quiet luxury.“This feels deliberate.”
Creed leaned back in his chair, studying me the way he did when a decision carried consequences.Not defensively.As if he were weighing cost instead of comfort.
“I needed distance,” he said.“Not from you.From the resistance I create when I don’t want to look at something directly.”
“And?”I pressed.
His jaw flexed, the muscle working like he was grinding something down internally.“And I didn’t like the version of myself that pretended you were optional.”
That landed, but it wasn’t surrender.It was an admission stripped of promise.
“I’m tired,” I said quietly.“Of wondering whether loving you means sanding myself down until I fit inside your world.”
Something dark crossed his face.It wasn’t anger.
Fear.
“You don’t disappear,” he said.“You shake everything I built so I wouldn’t have to need anyone.”
I lowered my wine glass onto the table before my hand could shake.Then I stood, crossing to the window, needing the illusion of space even inside this immaculate containment.The city glittered beyond the glass—close enough to touch, impossible to reach.
“I think what I’ve done is tried to be patient,” I said.“But I won’t keep apologizing for wanting more.”
I felt him before I heard him—the subtle change in air, the heat at my back.
“You unravel me,” he said quietly.Not accusing.Observing.“And I hate how much clarity comes with that.”
His hands settled on my shoulders.Firm.Anchoring.Held back to the last second like restraint was the only thing keeping him upright.
His reflection ghosted behind mine in the glass, his eyes dark, fractured—not wild, but strained by something he no longer fully controlled.
“I’ve spent weeks convincing myself that this was manageable,” he continued.“That distance from you would restore the balance in my life.”
He exhaled, slow and deliberate.“It didn’t.”
I turned, my breath shallow, and his hands came up to frame my face.Not rough.Controlled to the point of ache.The contrast—precision in his grip, volatility in his eyes—tightened something low in my chest.
“I don’t know how to do this cleanly,” he said.“I only know that walking away costs more than staying.”
His thumbs brushed beneath my eyes, wiping away tears I hadn’t noticed falling.
I curled my fingers around his wrists, grounding him as much as myself.“Then don’t ask me to survive your absence again,” I said.“If you choose silence, it can’t be with me standing on the other side waiting.”
That mattered.I felt it in the way his breath stuttered, the way his hold adjusted.
Creed kissed me.
And even as I leaned into him, even as my body answered before my thoughts could catch up, I knew this wasn’t resolution.
It was ignition.
His eyes darkened further, something slipping, surrendering, and then his mouth came down on mine again, harder this time.Raw in a way that startled me.Like the kiss had been dragged from a place he kept barricaded by discipline and years of controlled denial.
I melted into it anyway.
My hands slid into his hair.Holding.His body pressed into mine, solid and warm, and his hands moved down my back before tightening, drawing me closer with a need that felt almost unsteady.As if he didn’t quite trust himself to remain intact if he let go.
