“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say easily, because it feels true in this moment. “Busy. But okay.”
He exhales softly, like that was the answer he was hoping for. “Good. I know things are a lot right now.”
“They are,” I agree. “But really, I’m okay.”
We talk for a few minutes, nothing heavy. Schedules. Work. A comment about the upcoming event. It’s the kind of conversation that stays carefully on the surface, respectful of the space we agreed on without naming it outright.
He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask questions I’m not ready to answer. He lets the conversation end naturally, without trying to stretch it into something more.
When we hang up, I don’t feel rattled or unsettled.
I feel reassured.
This is what it’s supposed to look like, I tell myself. Two people giving each other room. No pressure. No confusion.
If something were wrong, I’d feel it.
And right now, I don’t.
…………
The drive home is uneventful, the sky already dimming into evening by the time I pull into my driveway. I go through my usual routine, slipping off my shoes, setting my bag down, moving through the house with practiced ease.
It’s quiet, but not the uncomfortable kind. Just space.
I make dinner, something simple, and eat at the counter while scrolling through emails I don’t need to answer yet. My phonestays face-down beside me, and I don’t feel the urge to flip it over.
That feels like progress.
Afterward, I curl up on the couch with a book I’ve already read once, letting the words wash over me without really sinking in. My mind drifts, but it doesn’t spiral. Every time it brushes against Jace, against the memory of his mouth or his hands or the way he looked at me like he was choosing restraint even when it cost him, I gently redirect myself.
This is what holding the line looks like, I tell myself.
No drama or pain. Just intention.
When I finally get ready for bed, I pause in front of the mirror, studying my reflection. I look composed. Rested, even. Like a woman who knows what she’s doing.
I turn off the light and slide beneath the covers, settling into the familiar weight of the mattress. The house hums softly around me, steady and contained, and I let myself believe that this feeling will last.
That I’ve created something stable by choosing space.
That careful choices lead to careful outcomes.
As I close my eyes, one thought floats through me, calm and unquestioned.
This is manageable.
And that’s the lie I fall asleep holding.
Sleep comes easily, which feels like proof in itself.
I don’t drift so much as sink, the world narrows until there’s only heat and sensation and the unmistakable weight of someone else’s attention on me. Hands find me without hesitation, confident and familiar, sliding along my sides like they already know every place I’ll react. My breath catches before I can stop it, a sound pulled out of me instead of chosen.
I don’t think about restraint or timing or what this means.
I think about how close he is, how the space between us disappears until I can feel him everywhere at once. His mouth is warm and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make me ache before moving again, tracing a path that leaves my skin buzzing in its wake. I tilt into it, chasing the contact, needing more without knowing how I got here.
