I felt him shudder with conflict.And I kissed him harder—not to erase the war between us, but to meet him inside it.To acknowledge the fracture instead of pretending it wasn’t there.
The kiss slowed, deepened, searching, dangerous in its honesty.
When he finally pulled back, our foreheads rested together, breath mingling, the moment suspended and precarious.His fingers traced the lines of my palm before closing around my hand.
Grounding.
“Come,” he murmured, voice hoarse but steadied, as if he were reconstructing himself piece by piece.“Dinner’s ready.”
But we both knew—
This had already gone far beyond dinner.
The moment stretched as he guided me back toward the dining area, taut with everything neither of us was saying.The table was set for two beneath low candlelight—linen crisp, glassware gleaming, shadows curling along the walls like they were listening.
Every detail was precise.
Intentional.
Just like him.
The space felt intimate without being deliberate.As if this yacht had been designed to hold tension rather than soften it.The water lapped quietly against the hull, rhythmic and indifferent, a reminder that the world kept moving whether we figured this out or not.
Two servers moved silently, placing the first course in front of us—lobster bisque, rich and fragrant, steam rising in slow curls.Creed pulled out my chair, his hand settling briefly at my back.Not possessive.Not hesitant.A touch that saidI’m here, without asking for anything in return.
I sat.He followed.
For a moment, we simply existed across from one another.
“This is nice,” I said eventually, setting my spoon down.“You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied.Simple.Unembellished.“Tonight matters.”
The way he said matters slid under my skin.
I held his gaze instead of deflecting.Letting the silence stretch until it felt honest instead of evasive.
The next course arrived—filet, perfectly prepared—but Creed barely touched it.His attention stayed fixed on me.Studying me.
“You’re not eating,” I noted.
He leaned back slightly, swirling his wine.Controlled.Measured.“I’m trying to decide how to say something without turning it into a strategy.”
That earned my full attention.
“Try honesty,” I said softly.“You don’t need to win this.”
His mouth curved—almost a smile.“That might be the problem.”
I waited.
“I asked you here because I didn’t want our last conversation to be heat and collision,” he said.“I needed space where I couldn’t run.Where I had to sit with what I feel instead of managing it.”
“And what do you feel?”I asked.
His jaw tightened with restraint.“That I don’t want to lose you.”
The words landed cleanly.No qualifiers.No deflection.
