I keep my hands on his back, feeling the warmth radiating beneath my palms, feeling the steady pulse of his amber veins, feeling the way his body has transformed from cold, unyielding stone into something warm and alive and impossibly vulnerable.
And I don't move.
I don't pull away.
I just stay.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged and full of something I'm not ready to name.
But I can feel it.
In the heat beneath my hands. In the way his breathing has slowed, deep and steady. In the way my own pulse has synced with the rhythm of his amber veins.
Something has shifted.
Something has cracked open.
And I don't know if either of us is ready for what comes next.
But I know, with absolute certainty, that there's no going back.
The boundary between professional and something far more dangerous has just shattered.
And I'm still here.
Still straddling his back.
Still feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my palms.
Still unable to move.
Because for the first time in three weeks, I'm not thinking about rent or eviction notices or student loans.
I'm thinking about him.
About the way his voice cracked when he saidI have been alone for eight hundred years.
About the way his body transformed beneath my hands, stone melting into warmth.
About the way I can feel his vulnerability radiating through every point of contact between us.
And I realize, with a cold, uncomfortable certainty that mirrors his own, that I'm in trouble too.
Because I don't just see him as a client anymore.
I see him as a man.
A lonely, ancient, impossibly powerful man who just admitted he needs me.
And I don't know what to do with that.
So I stay.
I keep my hands on his back.
And I let the silence speak for both of us.
Chapter 6: Cyprian
