Page 12 of Laced in Longing

“You know who I am.”

What a stupid thing to say. Why would I ask if I already knew? “I really don’t.”

“You do.” He moves closer still, only a few feet away. “You have always known me, Maven.”

My name in his mouth is almost invasive. A presumption of intimacy that I haven’t granted. And yet…something about the way he says it feels right, like he’s been calling me by my name for years.

“The flowers,” I say, veering away from the unsettling familiarity. “Are you the one leaving them?”

His head dips in what might be a nod. “They are a gift.”

“Why?”

“They are special to me.” There’s a warmth to his voice now, a fondness that wasn’t there before. “I am pleased you have kept them.”

My cheeks heat. I think of the glass jar on my dresser, filling slowly with dried blooms. “If they’re so special to you, why give them away?”

“Because they belong with you. As do I.”

My heart skips several beats before racing to catch up with itself. Something about his words strikes a chord deep within me, resonating with a part of myself I didn’t know existed.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I counter, wrapping both arms around myself as if it’ll hold back the strange sensation spreading through my abdomen. “We don’t know each other.”

“We have known each other for longer than you can comprehend.” The surety in his voice forces another tremor through me.

“Are you real? Or am I just losing my mind?”

He closes the final distance between us, near enough that I should be able to smell him, but nothing graces my senses. His height forces me to tilt my head back to maintain the illusion of eye contact.

“I am as real as you are.” One hand rises, hovering near my cheek without touching. “As real as this dream and the flowers I leave for you.”

My breathing shallows. I should step back; force space between us. But my feet remain rooted to the stone from the force of his gravity.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give you now.” His hand drops back to his side, along with my stomach. “You are not ready for more.”

My eyes narrow. How dare he? “Don’t tell me what I’m ready for—you don’t know me.”

“I know every version of you that has ever existed,” he says, the words quiet but so intense they might as well be shouted. “I know the shape of your soul. I know the weight of your longing.”

My throat constricts, making it difficult to swallow. Or breathe.

“What do you want from me?” I manage, the question barely audible.

He steps even closer, still no scent attached to his presence. “Everything.” The word ghosts over my skin. “But I will settle for your recognition. For now.”

My blood pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it, must see the way the pulse flutters at my throat. The charged air between us could power this city for a century.

But as his words settle, my brows crease. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” There’s a promise in the statement, a threat hiding under the guise of certainty. “In time, you will remember everything.”

I want to ask what he means, what I’m supposed to remember, but the dream begins to fray at the edges. The colors of the Amalfi Coast dim, sounds growing distant, as if someone is slowly turning down the volume of the world. The sensation of his presence remains strong, but everything else recedes.

“No,” I protest, reaching out as if I could grab hold of the dream. “Wait⁠—”

“I will be waiting,” he assures me, his voice the only clear thing in the dissolving scene. “I have always waited for you, Maven.”