"Are you sure?"
The question is gentle.
Careful.
Like he's giving me one last chance to back out, to change my mind, to run.
"Yes." I take a breath. Force myself to say the rest, to be completely honest even though it costs me. "But I hate that I want this."
Something flickers in his eyes.
Not triumph—I was expecting triumph.
Something more complex.
Something that looks almost like understanding, like respect.
"Good," he says quietly. "Hate me all you want, Eden. Just don't lie to yourself about what your body needs."
The words should make me angry.
Should make me want to take it back, to prove him wrong, to demonstrate that I'm stronger than this wanting.
Instead, they make something in my chest loosen.
Because he's right.
Idoneed this.
My body needs this.
And lying about it, pretending I don't want what I clearly do, won't change that fundamental truth.
Won't make the wanting go away.
Won't give me back the innocence or ignorance I had before he showed me what pleasure felt like.
"Tonight," he continues, his voice still calm, still measured. "After dinner. Come to my room when you're ready."
My heart jumps, slamming against my ribs. "Your room?"
"Unless you'd prefer yours. But I thought—a change of scenery might help. Make it feel less like repeating what happened before. More like something new. Something you're choosing."
Something new.
Something I'm choosing.
Like this is a progression, a natural next step.
Like we're moving forward together instead of him just doing things to me, showing me things, teaching me things.
Like I have agency in this.
The thought is terrifying.
And thrilling.
And probably a complete lie I'm telling myself to make this feel less like surrender.
