But life is short. And time is cruel. And I am tired of wanting things and never reaching for them.
He’s already turning away when I let the towel fall.
He freezes.
Slowly, he looks at me.
He looks like a man trying to remember how to breathe.
“Ella…” he starts.
I take one step closer.
And something in him finally breaks.
He closes the distance between us in two strides, lifts me off my feet like he’s afraid I might change my mind, and carries me toward the bed with a kind of quiet, restrained urgency that feels nothing like hunger and everything like need.
Not reckless.
Not casual.
Desperate.
Like a man who’s been holding himself together with willpower alone.
And for the first time, I feel it — not just his body, not just the tension — but the vulnerability underneath it.
The part of him that’s been fighting this just as hard as I have.
This time, he doesn’t rush.
That’s the strange part.
There’s no frantic scramble for clothes. No sharp edges. No sudden distance.
He just lies there for a moment, forehead resting against mine, eyes closed like he’s memorizing something he’s not going to let himself keep.
Then he shifts.
Gently.
Reluctantly.
He reaches up and brushes my hair back from my face, his thumb warm against my temple.
For a second, I think he’s going to say something.
Anything.
He doesn’t.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
Not my mouth.
Not my neck.
My forehead.
