This time, he doesn’t say anything.
For a moment, my mind refuses to catch up to what I’m seeing. A live feed from my dorm room fills the monitor, the familiar space suddenly foreign under the weight of his watchful eye. It isn’t the single, skewed view I expected—the one I found this morning—but a mosaic of images, each from a different angle. My desk, my bed, the narrow stretch of floor between. Every corner accounted for.
A tremor rolls through me, but not from fear.
It’s…too much and not enough all at once. I should be furious at the violation. Instead, I feel the pull of something far more dangerous: the realization that I have somehow become the axis his entire world spins on. It’s invasive beyond words, yes—undeniably. But there’s a part of me that can only see the devotion, however misguided, threading through his actions.
What he’s done is inexcusable. I know how twisted it is, yet standing here, seeing how far he’s gone just to keep me close, I can’t help but feel…cherished.
It’s staggering to think that someone likeNathaniel Caldwell—a man who could have anything, anyone, and indulge himselfin any number of ways—has chosen to lose himself inme,of all people.
Beside me, he’s unraveling in silence, holding himself still as if that restraint might absolve him. He’s willing himself to give me the space to absorb the gravity of his actions. But that stillness is deceptive; I can feel the vibration of his unease, see it in the way he positions himself between me and the door. If I tried to leave now, I’d have to go through him first.
His face is stricken, braced for the blow that’s sure to come. He has been completely stripped of his armor, his vulnerability laid bare as he waits for me to sentence him.
And as I search for my answer, I find that perhaps I’m more lost than I ever realized.
“Olivia,” he says at last, voice frayed. “What happens now?”
I can’t answer. Not yet.
Not when the only thing worse than choosing wrong is giving an answer before I’ve made peace with it. I have to turn this over in my mind—feel every side of it, even the ones that cut—before I can live with what I say next.
Without meaning to, I step back, needing space to think.
Nathaniel’s reaction is immediate. His head snaps up like a cord’s been yanked.
“No—” His voice breaks. Then, before he can think better of it, he moves.
He crosses the space in two long strides, only to drop to his knees at a measured distance—close enough for his heat to reach me, but far enough to make it clear this isn’t a trap. It’s an offering.
“It’s okay if you want to punish me,” he says, each syllable scraped raw. His gaze climbs my body as if afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks. “If you hate me. If you need to make me crawl until we’re even, I will. I’ll let you break me down and build me backhowever you want. But please…pleasedon’t take yourself away from me.”
His hands flex against his thighs, curling like he’s holding himself back from touching me. The restraint is palpable—I can feel it, a tremor in the air, in the answering tremor inside me.
This should frighten me… But why can’t I bear the thought of turning away from him?
“If you need to know where I am, or who I’m with…” My voice falters. “Then you ask me. You trust me. You don’t take my choice away from me.”
His eyes flare—hurt, longing, and something molten beneath it. His chest rises with a slow, deliberate breath, as though holding himself back from surging forward and closing the space.
Can I live with this? With the way he watches, with the tether he knots so tight around me?
But the hardest question claws its way to the surface—can I live without him?The mere thought rips through me, raw and merciless. Imagining a life without himhurts.
At the same time, I know that if I want Nathaniel at all, I have to take him as he is. This hunger to hold, to know, to claim—it isn’t something he can just put down and walk away from. It’s woven into him as surely as my pulse beats for him. And the truth is…I don’t want him stripped of it. I don’t want him hollowed out and harmless. I want him as he is.Because I love him.
And it’s that love—the sharp, undeniable ache of it—that leaves me with only one choice.
I cannot live without him. Which means I can live with this. As long as it is mine to choose.
I take a step. Then another. The hem of my skirt brushes against his forearms. He doesn’t move—doesn’t dare—until his fingers hover at the edges of my hips, trembling with restraint.
“This can’t come at the expense of my autonomy,” I tell him, my voice low. “If you’re going to watch over me, then I won’t be kept in the dark about it. That’s the line. You don’t cross it. Not if you want me to stay.”
His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch. And then—finally—he gives in, palms settling at my waist. His head bows, breath spilling warm over the plane of my stomach, the sound of it catching against my skin.
I thread my hand into his hair. The strands slip soft and warm between my fingers. He exhales, shuddering, a sound that’s half relief, half surrender. His forehead presses against me, closer, as though he could anchor himself in the shape of my body.
