I still my hands. Pull back just enough to look at her face.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Talk to me.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her chest rises too fast, like she’s trying to get control of her breathing before it gives her away.
“Sarah,” I say again, softer. “Are you okay?”
She swallows, her gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “I—” Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together, shaking her head once. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
My chest tightens. “Like what?”
She lets out a breath that sounds more like a release than a sob. “Like I’m doing something wrong. Even though I know I’m not.”
That lands harder than anything else in my head.
I shift back, giving her space without leaving. “You’re not,” I say immediately. “And I won’t let you feel like you are.”
Her eyes finally lift to mine, glossy but steady. “Then don’t disappear,” she says quietly. “And don’t pretend this is just… nothing.”
“I won’t,” I promise. “And it’s not.”
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in, grounding myself in the reality of her instead of the urge to cling.
“But I think… I think I need to give you some time,” I say quietly. “Not because this isn’t real. And not because I don’t want you.”
Her breath stutters.
“Just tonight,” I add quickly. “Because I don’t want this moment to turn into regret.”
She searches my face, like she’s testing whether I mean it.
“I’m notleaving,” I say again, steady. “I’m choosing to stop before it hurts you. Before I hurt you… again.”
The silence in the room is heavy, thick with a heavy dose of reality. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my back to her, staring at the moonlight filtering through the blinds. Every instinct I have, every coaching drill, every ‘man-of-the-house’ responsibility I’ve ever internalized, screams at me to do something. To fix it. To tell her that she’s wrong, that there’s no guilt to be had.
But I’ve spent five years lying to myself; I can’t start lying to her.
I reach down and pick up my shirt, the fabric feeling like lead in my hands. I pull it on, the movement mechanical. Behind me, I hear the rustle of the duvet as she shifts, a small, wet sniffle breaking the quiet. It cuts through me deeper than the rejection did.
“I’m not going to disappear,” I say, softer now. She’s curled under the blankets, eyes shining, lips pressed tight like she’s bracing for something worse. “I’m leaving because I don’t want this to turn into something that hurts you tomorrow.”
She swallows, her eyes widening as panic flickers for just a second. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “It’s okay. But I should.”
I move slowly, deliberately, like I don’t want to spook the moment. “I want you. I’ve never stopped wanting you. But I don’t want our first time back together to feel like something you ever regret or question. I don’t want you wondering if you only let this happen because everything else was already broken. I want you to choose me when you’re ready.”
Her breath shakes, but she nods.
“Just for now,” I add. “And then, if you still want, we can talk. You get to breathe. I’ll be here. No pressure. No expectations.”
I pause. “You don’t owe me anything, Sarah.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I finish dressing, my movements slow. I find my shoes by the door and carry them out to the living room, leaving her the space to breathe, to dress, or to cry without me hovering over her like a shadow.
My reflection in the window over the sink in her kitchen looks like a stranger. There are lines around my eyes I didn't notice this morning. I look like a man who just tore down a building and is surprised he’s covered in dust.
