"I thought this would push you away," I murmured. "And it nearly broke me."
Vivienne cupped my jaw, guiding my gaze to hers. “It didn't. I'm right here. We're both still here."
I kissed her—slow, tender, reverent—and then again, like I needed to memorize the shape of her mouth. When I finally withdrew, I did so gently, leaving her with a soft moan and a warmth that lingered long after.
I slipped into the bathroom to discard the condom, but when I returned, it wasn't just to crawl back into bed—it was to wrap her in my arms like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.
We lay together afterward, breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. I pulled her against my side, marveling at how perfectly she fit there, how right this felt despite the chaos surrounding us.
"Julian?" Vivienne's voice was soft, hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
She was quiet for a moment, then: "Why do you always wear gloves?"
I felt my entire body tense. It was a question I'd been dreading and expecting in equal measure, one that went to the heart of who I was and why I'd built my life the way I had.
"It's complicated," I said finally.
"Most important things are." Vivienne's fingers traced patterns on my chest, her touch soothing despite the difficult territory we were entering. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I've noticed that you never take them off. Even when we're... intimate."
I was quiet for a long time, wrestling with how much to reveal, how much truth she could handle. But looking down at her, at the trust in her eyes, I realized she deserved honesty.
"I had to make some hard decisions when I was younger," I said carefully. "Decisions that changed me. The gloves... they're a reminder. And a form of control."
"What kind of decisions?"
I closed my eyes, the memories rising unbidden. My father's drunken rages, my mother's bruises that she always explained away. The day I'd come home early from school to find my father forcing himself on my mother while she begged him to stop, her desperate cries of ‘please’ falling on deaf ears.
"My father was an abuser," I said quietly. "He hurt my mother, hurt me. I thought I understood what was happening, but I was wrong. I was protecting her the wrong way."
Vivienne's hand stilled on my chest, but she didn't pull away. "Julian..."
"One day I came home early and saw whatwas really happening. My mother was begging him to stop, saying 'please' over and over, but he wouldn't listen. He never listened." My jaw tightened. "So I made him stop. Permanently."
The silence that followed was heavy with implication. Vivienne didn't ask for details, didn't press for specifics. She just held me closer, offering comfort without judgment.
"The police called it self-defense, defense of others," I continued. "I was a minor, and the evidence of abuse was overwhelming. But my mother's words haunted me—the way she begged for mercy and never received it.
"The way I made him beg, and never gave him that mercy either." The words tumbled out, things I'd never shared coming to light. "I was just like him in those final moments, and I relished in it. In denying him his cries for mercy just like he denied my mother hers. Afterwards, I knew that I never wanted to be like him again."
"Is that why consent is so important to you?" Vivienne asked softly.
I nodded. "I never want to be the person who ignores someone's wishes. The gloves remind me to stay in control, to never take more than what's freely given."
Vivienne was quiet for a moment, processing what I'd shared. "That's why you don't like what's happening with the photo. I didn't consent to having my privacy invaded."
"Exactly." My arms tightened around her. "You had no control over that image being used, over your name being spread around on gossip sites. It goes against everything I believe about respecting someone's choices."
"But Julian," Vivienne said gently, "The photo itself isn't scandalous. We were just walking together, looking happy. I consented to being seen with you in public. What I didn't consent to was having it turned into a media circus."
I considered that distinction, realizing she was right. The photo itself wasn't the violation—it was what had been done with it afterward.
"You're right," I admitted. "I'm angry about the wrong thing."
