"I know. You've been perfect about that. Never pushing. Always following my lead." He turned to look at me. "But I think—I think I'm ready. To try. To prove to myself that Dante didn't take this from me. That I can still choose intimacy. Still want it. Still enjoy it with you."
My heart rate kicked up. "If you're sure. If you feel ready. But Julian—there's no timeline. No expectation. I'm happy just being with you. Holding you. Whatever you need."
"What if what I need is you? All of you. Tonight."
Heat flooded through me. Want. But also caution. "We can do whatever you want. Go as far as you're comfortable. Stop whenever you need. You lead. I follow. Understand?"
"Understood." He smiled. "But I appreciate you checking. Appreciate that you never assume. Never take for granted. That matters."
We finished cooking. Ate dinner. Talked about work and restructuring plans and Stefan's progress with the corporate separations. Normal conversation. Normal evening.
But underneath it all, anticipation built. Want mixed with tenderness. Desire tempered by care.
After dinner, Julian took my hand. "Bedroom. Now. While I still have courage."
"You're the bravest person I know. You don't need courage for this. Just trust. And you have that. You trust me. I trust you. That's all we need."
In the bedroom, Julian stood in front of me. Took a breath. "I want to lead. Want to choose. Want to prove I can do this. Will you let me?"
"Always. You're in control. Complete control. Tell me what you need."
He reached for my shirt. Unbuttoned it slowly. His hands were shaking slightly but his eyes were determined. He pushed the shirt off my shoulders. Let it fall to the floor.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly. "I forget sometimes. Get caught up in trauma and fear and forget how beautiful you are. How much I love looking at you."
"Julian—"
"Let me do this. Let me remember what this feels like. When it's chosen. When it's wanted. When it's with someone I love."
He kissed me. Soft at first. Then deeper. Taking his time. Learning my mouth again like it was the first time.
His hands explored my chest. My shoulders. My arms. Relearning my body. Reclaiming this intimacy.
"Okay?" I asked against his lips.
"More than okay. Perfect." He pulled back. Started unbuttoning his own shirt. "Help me?"
I helped him undress slowly. Careful of scars that had healed physically but still existed emotionally. He'd lost weight over the past month. Was thinner. More fragile-looking. But his eyes were strong. Determined. Alive.
"You're beautiful too," I said. Meaning it. "Always beautiful. Especially when you're being brave like this."
"Not brave. Just—refusing to let trauma win. Refusing to let him take this from me." He kicked off his jeans. Stood before me in just boxers. "I choose this. Choose you. Choose to reclaim my body and my pleasure and my agency."
"Then take what you want. I'm yours."
He pushed me onto the bed. Climbed over me. Straddled my hips. Looked down at me with heat and love and determination.
"I'm going to make love to you. On my terms. At my pace. And you're going to let me. You're going to trust me to know what I need. To ask for what I want. To stop if it's too much. Can you do that?"
"Yes. Completely. You lead. I follow. Always."
He leaned down and kissed me. Deep and thorough. His hands pinned my wrists above my head. Not restraining—just claiming. Showing control. Showing choice.
"I love you," he said. "I love that you're patient with me. Love that you never push. Love that you give me space to heal. But right now—right now I don't want space. I want connection. Want to feel you. Want to remember what good intimacy feels like."
"Then take it. Take whatever you need."
He kissed down my chest. My stomach. Took his time. Relearning my body. Building sensation slowly.
