14
EMILIA
And then, finally, I said, “Okay. One dinner.”
The words didn’t feel romantic or brave. They felt risky. Unearned. But I said them anyway.
His shoulders dropped, just slightly. He didn’t smile. Didn’t lean forward. He simply nodded, like he understood the weight of what I wasn’t saying.
I didn’t offer a date or time. I just stood, fingers curling into my palms, and walked out of his office before I could change my mind.
The rest of the day blurred past in a haze. I avoided the temptation to overthink it. To dissect every word, every expression, every part of me that still wanted to believe he meant it. That he’d really show up as the version of himself he never allowed me to see before things fell apart.
But I didn’t give that part of me too much airtime. Hope had gotten me into this mess once already.
Over the next few days, nothing between us changed on the surface. We kept things professional. Quick updates. Necessary emails. Glances that didn’t last long enough to mean anything. But there was a quiet awareness, a subtle tension between us now.
He didn’t bring up dinner again.
And that made it worse in a strange way. Because then it became mine to follow through on. Mine to set the terms.
I hated that.
I hated how, even now, I felt like I was leading the way while he hovered behind, waiting for permission to catch up.
Still, I picked a restaurant the following week. Somewhere no one from the office would go. I emailed him the details like it was a meeting.
He replied with a single line: I’ll be there. No expectations.
When the night came, I stood in front of the mirror longer than I meant to. I didn’t want to look too polished. Too available. But I also didn’t want to look like I hadn’t cared. Because I had. I still did. And pretending otherwise would be a lie I was too tired to tell.
He was already at the table when I arrived. No tie. A little less guarded in his posture. He stood when he saw me, but didn’t reach for a hug or a kiss or even my hand. Just a quiet “Hey”
as I sat across from him.
The conversation was slow at first. Surface-level. Food, work, the city. But after the wine came, something softened. We talked about music. About his friend’s new baby. About the book on my nightstand I was about to finish.
Not once did he mention the past. He didn’t push. Didn’t steer the night toward redemption or resolution.
And maybe that was what made it bearable.
Because I didn’t need a grand apology. I didn’t need him to fall on his knees or beg for another chance. I just needed to know he could sit across from me and see me as a person, and not a thing to win or control or keep secret.
When the bill came, he reached for it, and I didn’t argue.
Outside, the night was cool and quiet.
He pushed his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat before saying, “I meant what I said in my office. I don’t expect anything from you. But thank you for tonight.”
I nodded, unsure what to say back. So, I stayed quiet and waited for him to speak again.
“Can I walk you home?”
he offered.
I shook my head. The restaurant I’d chosen was only a five-minute walk away, and I liked the idea of walking home alone, to let the dinner we had sink in. “No, thank you.”
“Alright.”
He bit his bottom lip, then gave me a gentle smile. “Get home safe. I’ll see you in the office.” He reached out one hand to touch my arm, and that’s all I allowed him to do. As close as I allowed him to come for now.
I went home alone, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel hollow.
I felt whole.
Even if I wasn’t sure what came next.
***
Things got easier after that dinner.
Not all at once, not in any dramatic way. But in the slow, careful unfolding that happens when two people decide to stop hurting each other. Or maybe, to stop pretending they don’t care. He had been the one to hurt me. It wasn’t the other way around, and I had to keep reminding myself.
At the office, we returned to normal. Or at least something resembling it. Only this time, it wasn’t heavy with tension. It wasn’t cold. I didn’t avoid him anymore.
He was kind. Thoughtful. Present in the way I used to wish he’d be.
When he passed me in the hallway, he smiled. Sometimes he made a quiet joke under his breath, just for me. Sometimes I answered with one of my own. Sometimes we just looked at each other and moved on.
Slowly, quietly, we started to rebuild. Not through big conversations or grand gestures, but in the way we looked at each other a little longer. In the way he listened when I spoke. It wasn’t about sex anymore. It was something else. Something quieter. Closer.
I’d find him waiting for me by the elevator at the end of the day.
He’d bring me coffee just the way I liked it before a meeting he knew would stress me out.
The air between us had softened, and I let myself lean into that softness. I let myself speak to him again. Joke with him. Trust him in pieces.
And slowly, without me being able to steer this in any other direction, I started to fall for him again.
It wasn’t like the first time.
Back then, it was Dean who held all the power. Dean who kept me at a distance with cold eyes and clipped words, who pulled me into his office, then sent me home without ever asking if I’d made it there safely. I had fallen alone, quietly and completely, while he stayed untouched. Unmoved.
But now…something had shifted.
He showed up differently. Not with grand gestures, but with consistency. With care. With presence. I’d catch him watching me in meetings, not with hunger, but with something softer. Like he was finally letting himself feel everything he’d buried before.
He wasn’t trying to win me back with charm or apologies. He wasn’t even trying to impress me. He was just…there. Available in a way I never believed he could be.
I saw it in the way he waited for me outside meetings, lingering just long enough to walk me back to my office like it was second nature. I saw it in the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t. I saw it in the way he listened now. Fully. Closely.
And I was starting to believe it wasn’t just guilt or regret that made him act that way.
It was something deeper.
He was falling.
Maybe even faster than I was this time. Harder. Completely.
One night, after a long day and a late meeting, we ended up in the conference room again, papers spread out, coffee gone cold, the city glowing through the windows. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tired but soft, watching me as I closed my laptop.
He didn’t speak right away, and I looked up, wondering what was going on in his head.
“You know…I’ve always loved sitting next to you in meetings. You always keep me calm,”
he finally said, his voice soft, just like his expression.
I didn’t move. Just stood there and watched him.
His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. I’d always known he was good at hiding his feelings, but lately, there was something different in the way he was looking at me. Something raw. Something real.
“You always kept me calm too,”
I admitted quietly, not sure where the words were coming from. Maybe it was because the past seemed so distant now, maybe because I didn’t want to fight it anymore. The tension between us felt different, softer. A little bit like we were both allowing ourselves to finally be vulnerable.
He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving mine.
Then, he stood up. His movements were slow, like he was giving me time to pull away if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. I wasn’t sure I ever did.
He took a step toward me, and I felt my breath hitch. Every inch of space between us felt like it was closing in, drawing us together, whether I was ready or not.
“I’m sorry,”
he whispered, his voice low. “For everything. I never wanted to hurt you.”
His apology was so sincere, and it was something I hadn’t really expected.
The last bit of space between us disappeared as he reached out, his hand brushing the side of my face. The touch was gentle. More than it had ever been, and my body reacted to it immediately.
“I don’t want to keep messing this up, Emilia,”
he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of my cheek. “I just want to be here. With you. Whatever that means.”
I couldn’t answer him, not in words. But the way I looked at him, how I stepped closer, closing the final gap, said everything. He understood, and a small smile tugged at his lips.
“Are you sure about this?”
he asked, moving closer.
I chewed the inside of my lip and swallowed before whispering, “Yes, I’m sure.”
His lips found mine then, pressing against mine softly. Too soft. Like he was waiting for me to pull back and change my mind.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I kissed him back carefully. The kiss was different from all of the ones we had before. It was different from the heated and desperate moments we once had. This one was soft, full of hope. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me in, holding me close.
The kiss deepened and I felt myself melting against him, letting him hold me like he never really had before. Letting him be gentle. Letting myself be open. The warmth of him made me dizzy, and I didn’t want it to stop. I didn’t want this to ever stop.
His lips parted and his tongue brushed along my bottom lip, carefully asking for permission. I didn’t hesitate to let him in, and his tongue slid inside my mouth and curled around mine. The moan escaping me proved that, deep down, I had already forgiven him. I had already chosen him again. But this time, I knew that he felt the same.
I would make him fight for me. Show me that he truly changed.
He didn’t say anything when he pulled back, but he didn’t have to. I think, for the first time, I really believed him. I really believed we could be something more than just a painful history.
I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his shoulder, letting us stand there together in a way we never had before. There was no urgency. No sense that this wouldn’t last.
When he hugged me back, I knew we’d finally found the place where we could start over.
And it was all because I allowed myself to believe it could be different this time.
***
1 month later
He was kissing my neck, and my body responded before I was even fully awake, arching and melting into him as his mouth found mine. I moaned, the sound swallowed by his lips. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging with a need that was almost painful.
His weight pressed down on mine as he rolled on top of me, never breaking the kiss.
His hand slipped under my shirt, rough and warm against my skin, and I gasped as he pulled it over my head. "Morning, love," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and desire. The heat between us grew as he pushed down his shorts, getting rid of them before doing the same with my panties. Then he looked down at me, taking in my naked body as the tip of his tongue ran across his bottom lip.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he groaned, dipping his head to kiss a line from my throat to my breasts. He sucked one nipple into his mouth and squeezed both my tits with his hands.
I watched as he took his time, giving both nipples the same amount of attention before he moved up again to kiss my lips. “I missed you,”
he murmured, making me chuckle.
“I was right here. All night long,”
I told him as he broke the kiss.
“I know. But I wasn’t awake. I missed you while I slept.”
This version of Dean was soft, sweet, honest, and miles away from the man who once used me like I didn’t matter. Who was ruthless with my heart.
Now his words felt like balm to all the places he’d bruised.
I smiled gently and lifted my hands to his hair, pushing my fingers through it.
“I’m right here,”
I repeated quietly, my words a promise.
“Good.”
He pressed another kiss to my lips and reached between our bodies to slide two fingers through my folds. “So damn wet for me.”
That was something that hadn’t changed. Every time he was near, my panties were soaked. Didn’t matter in what situation, my body simply reacted this way. I couldn’t help it, but I didn’t want to, anyway.
His hand moved to his hardening cock, and with the tip, he brushed along my folds, up to my clit, and back down to my entrance before sliding into me with so much ease.
We both cried out, and he moved slowly at first, each thrust measured, drawing out the pleasure until I thought I couldn't take it anymore.
“You feel so good,”
he whispered against my ear. “So perfect.”
I clung to him, nails digging into his back, urging him on. “Harder,”
I begged, and he obliged, thrusting harder, driving us both closer to the edge.
My body tightened around him, and he cursed under his breath, burying his face in my neck. “Fuck, baby, you drive me crazy."
He continued to thrust into me until I shattered beneath him, and he followed a heartbeat later, shuddering, whispering my name. He didn’t pull out. Instead, he moved us so we were both on our sides, looking at each other as his cock still jolted inside of me. We lay tangled together, catching our breath, his heart pounding against my chest.
There was a time I wouldn’t have believed we would have moments like this. He used to be ruthless with me. Cold.
But he had changed. Truly. Deeply.
And somewhere along the way, I started to trust him again.
Not because he kept asking me to. But because he earned it.
Your choices led Emilia and Dean to find their way back to each other.
If you’d like to explore how things could have gone differently, return to Chapter 7 and try another path.