I tensed, waiting for the pain as he cut me off completely.
But he never did.
He continued letting me feel his skyrocketing anxiety.
He kept his word.
He moved to the sink, quietly rinsing his hands.
“Ronen?”
Silence.
His jaw ticked as he dried them. The awkward tension built as he moved around the kitchen, turning off the burner and placing the leftover ganache he planned to use for caramel truffles in the fridge.
Was it my question?
Or was it knowing I’d felt him that made him so anxious?
He removed his apron and placed it in a laundry basket.
Was he going to leave?
Releasing a heavy breath, he walked back and suddenly lifted me from the stool, placing me on the counter while he stole my seat and settled between my legs.
I almost protested at the position, but held my tongue as the single emotion he allowed me to feel spiraled out of control.
He glanced away, shadows weaving around his neck as if protecting him.
“I’m sorry, Lucille.”
“For?”
“I want to give you more. I really do.”
I gestured around the kitchen.
“You have. You showed me this part of you I could tease you endlessly for.”
My words missed their mark.
The dark cloud dragged him further into his thoughts.
I tilted my head.
“Ronen,” I said gently. “Look at me.”
It took a second, but he eventually did.
“Are you scared I’m going to judge you? I’ve already seen what Etan made you do. I’m still here.”
He closed his eyes and took a long inhale.
Then he stood and turned.
Confused, I waited for an explanation.
Slowly, his button-up loosened and he removed his shirt, exposing his torso.
