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My hand goes still against my thigh.
“But I don’t ever want you to hold back with me again,” she continues. “When we are finally together, I don’t want careful sex designed to prove you still find me beautiful. I don’t want you monitoring every breath because you’re afraid I’ll turn your desire into another test I can fail. I want your hunger, your Spanish, your filthy mouth, your control, and the moments when I destroy it. I want the softness you rarely give anyone and every rough edge you taught yourself to hide before people could use it against you.”
“When we are finally together,” I repeat.
Charm becomes quiet.
“You said when,” I tell her. “You didn’t say if.”
“I don’t believe this ends with letters.”
Hope enters too quickly for me to stop it. “What do you believe?”
“I believe we are going to see each other again. I believe we are working toward being together, even if neither of us knows when we’ll be ready to make that choice.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am certain about wanting you. I’m still learning whether I can hold what I want without allowing fear to destroy it.”
The distinction matters. Months ago, Charm would have converted desire into a promise and expected the strength of her love to make it true. Now, she gives me the truth without decorating it into something easier to trust.
“I don’t know when I’ll be ready either,” I admit.
“I know.”
“But when I see you, I won’t hold back.”
Her breathing catches.
“I spent the entire wedding controlling what you were allowed to see,” I continue. “Even in front of the mirror, I kept enough of myself separate to remember what happened before and what waited afterward. The next time I touch you, it won’t be to pull you out of a collapse or steal one night before returning to separate lives.”
“What will it be?”
“It will be because we decided you are mine again, and once I believe that, I’m finished fighting my own nature to make wanting you look civilized.”
“Good.”
The immediate answer makes my cock twitch despite everything we just did.
“Understand what you’re agreeing to, Charm.”
“I do. I want the man who called and told me to spread my legs before asking how my day went.”
“That man isn’t particularly romantic.”
“That man mailed me annotated Victorian poetry and a crystal-covered hockey jersey.”
“That proves questionable judgment.”
“It proves you contain multitudes.”
I laugh as I drag one hand over my face. “Your literature jokes remain terrible.”
“You’re in love with me anyway.”
The words settle between us without forcing either of us to pretend they mean everything is repaired.
“I am,” I say.
