The memory of last night flickers—her letting me slip into the shower with her, allowing me to wash her hair and soap her body, intimacy that I constantly crave from her. She gave me that, and I tell myself I can give her this in return: the space to earn her career on her own terms, as long as I have the rest of her.
Her voice is muffled against my chest. “Thank you. For wanting to do things for me. And for understanding.”
I close my eyes and hold her tighter.
Eventually, we resume our walk, hand in hand, the rhythm of our steps syncing like we’ve finally found a steady beat again.
But then, almost absentmindedly, she says, “I should probably start looking for an apartment. Maybe I’ll need a roommate, since it’s so expensive in New York…”
The words freeze me mid-stride. I can’t stand the idea of her walking into a place that isn’t ours, sharing space with someone who isn’t me. The notion alone is enough to make me see red.
“No,” I snap. “You don’t need to look. In case you’ve forgotten, you already have an apartmentanda roommate in New York.” The words come out blunt and certain because I will not let the idea sit there, loose and plausible.
“Nate…” Her tone, soft and almost placating, grates at me. Why should this feel like an unreasonable demand when it’s the most obvious truth I know?She belongs by my side.There is nothing good that could possibly come from living apart.
My thoughts churn, unyielding.
Is this why she rejected my proposal? Yes, it was impulsive, and I continue to curse myself for not making it grander, more meaningful. But still, I meant it with every fiber of my being. She brushed me off so easily… At the time, I’d convinced myself it was nerves or surprise. Now, doubt claws at me. Is she still hesitating because she can’t imagine tying herself to me fully, permanently?
Is this why she still can’t give up her dorm room, despite how often she stays over? I told myself it was her independence, her reluctance to let go of her own space. But is it something more? A buffer, a safety net, in case she chooses to leave?
Frustration flares, hot and sudden.
“Why won’t you let me do things for you?” I ask, the question ripping out of me before I can temper it. It isn’t just about the apartment, it’s abouteverythingI want to provide for her—safety, comfort, a life arranged so that nothing can ever inconvenience her.
And beneath that is another question that presses just behind my teeth:Why won’t you let me love you?
She exhales, and it sounds tired in a way that already tells me where her mind is going. Olivia’s instinct is retreat. Whenever things get hard, she draws inward, folds her needs into a small, tidy package and tucks it away.
“I just…” She sighs. “I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
The notion is so absurd, it almost lands like an insult. Does she really think I’d ever see her as opportunistic? As someone who would take without giving? Is this the reason she is still holding back?
I step closer and take both her hands, catching her gaze and holding it so there can be no misunderstanding what follows.
“Olivia,” I begin, brushing my thumbs over her knuckles. “You could never take advantage of me. Do you know why?”
Her eyes widen, wariness flickering there before she gives a small shake of her head.
“Because everything I have, everything I am, is yours. You don’t have to ask, and you don’t have to justify wanting more. If it makes you happy, I’ll give it to you. Freely. Gladly.”
Her lips part and I catch the faint tremor in her hand—the only sign that the armor she wears is not invulnerable.
“But I—” she starts.
“There is no but,” I interrupt, gently but with a firmness meant to slam the door shut on the old, worn arguments she keeps rehearsing in her head. “You don’t owe me an explanation for wanting what you deserve. And what you deserve, Olivia, is everything.”
Color rises to her cheeks and she bites her lip like she’s holding back a deeper confession. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and allow my fingers to drift down the side of her face.
“You don’t have to be afraid to say yes to me,” I murmur. “Not to Manhattan. Not to anything.”
Her only response is an almost imperceptible nod, but it’s enough for me to feel the tide turn. She lets me pull her into my arms, and this time, she doesn’t pull away.
We finish the walk in companionable silence, hand in hand. I savor the proximity—how her weight fits against my side, how the cadence of her step matches mine—but my head is already working, mapping the gaps I have not yet closed.
The reprieve is real, and I am grateful for it, but gratitude does not make me complacent. If there is any road that could lead her away, however unlikely, it must be rerouted. If she is, in truth, still a flight risk until she bears my name, then I cannot be idle.
After all, her future has already been decided.
