I swear she feels it too. The way she lingers after dinner, long after Ellenor and Catherine have gone to bed. Her bright smiles and the warm flickers in her gaze. The candles she lights throw soft light over her face, leaving me more enthralled than I already was. My heart races foolishly, and I’m hopelessly aware of her every move as I sit there, wanting her in ways I can’t ignore.
Those quiet evenings are difficult. The nights? Impossible.
I lie awake for hours, rigid in the dark and tormented by everything I don’t dare say or reach for. Her breathing is soft and even beside me, each breath a quiet temptation. I clench my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching out.
Holding her hand feels too dangerous lately. Each brush of her fingers sends a quiver through me, my restraint drawn taut like a bowstring.
It would be so terrifyingly easy to roll over and pull her against me; to banish the cold space between us. But she is healing. So, I stay on my edge of the bed, putting inches between us when I am desperate for zero.
The wanting is unbearable. It’s killing me slowly, compounded by the shame of desiring Lily when her nights are difficult for an entirely different reason. She struggles to get comfortable, the ache in her foot waking her in soft, frustrated breaths. Sometimes she startles from a nightmare. I learn the shapes of her exhaustion, the way she relaxes when I’m near, how easily she drifts off when I adjust her pillows and murmur reassurances.
It should be enough for me. It is, but also, it isn’t.
As the second month since her surgery passes and winter edges closer, her discomfort eases—and with it, my own longing becomes something I can’t excuse or repress anymore.
The truth is painfully simple.
I love her. Unequivocally. Irrevocably. Transcending desire—and stoking it. I want her with every breath. Every day it becomes harder to pretend otherwise, and each night I come dangerously close to crossing a line I shouldn’t.
I’m tempted beyond reason to roll her onto her back and kiss her.
I’ve thought about it.
I’ve thought about it a lot.
I keep telling myself I’ll wait until her cast comes off next week. It will bring her such relief to regain her mobility, a sense of freedom she’s been missing. Just a week more…but my patience is wearing thin.
Especially now, when I’m waking with her curled against me, soft and warm, tucked against my front as if she’s meant to be there, her back against my chest. And sometimes—God help me—she presses back in her sleep, the soft curves of her body sliding sensually against mine in a way that leaves me trembling. Is she asleep, or doing it consciously? If it’s intentional, she gives no indication at all as she slowly drives me to the brinkof madness.
I’m left wide awake, burning alive, fighting every instinct I have. It takes every shred of willpower to disentangle myself and plunge into long, cold showers—which do absolutely nothing to help douse the fire in my veins.
And though I’m not one to presume…
I’m starting to suspect—quite strongly—that she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing.
Later that night, in the quiet dark of our bedroom, she startles awake beside me. I feel her jolt before I hear her breath, sharp and urgent.
The shift snaps through me like a wire pulled tight, any trace of heat gone, replaced instantly by concern. For a split second, I’m certain she’s in pain, or caught in some nightmare, and I’m already reaching for her.
But she presses a hand to my chest, eyes bright in the dim light. She’s not frightened at all, but more…alight as though a kind of resolve has taken hold of her.
“Brandon,” she whispers, breathless. “I…I just dreamt of something. A melody. Could I—can I borrow your guitar?”
“Now?” I ask.
“Yes. Before I forget, I want to try and play it.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. She hasn’t touched an instrument since her guitar broke. The thought of her wanting to try again on another instrument fills me with a mix of relief and hope.
“Of course,” I manage, my voice earnest as we look towards my guitar in the corner. “It’s yours.”
That afternoon, I come home from work to find her already outside on the patio. She’s bundled up against the autumn chill in something called an Oodie—half-blanket, half-hoodie—with my guitar balanced in her lap.
Her spiral notebook sits on the iron table, the empty mugs indicating she’s been here a while, and she’s playing,reallyplaying, delicate notes threading into the cool air like something reborn.
Though I’m more than willing to lend her my electric guitar indefinitely, it isn’t right. Especially unplugged.
Buying a new acoustic feels wrong too—she deserves to choose her own. But I know that for her, the idea of stepping into a music shop isn’t a joyful one. It’s a threshold she isn’t ready to cross. My quiet invitation to take her there last month was politely declined, and I haven’t brought it up since.
