Chapter 25
Marcello
It became a routine.
Each night, without fail, I would sit beside Samira and she would trace the lines and curves of my face. She said she was ‘learning me’. I felt honored.
There was always a moment first—still, shared, unspoken—where we both settled into the knowledge that the day was over.
That whatever progress or setbacks had come with it could be set aside for a few hours.
Then she would turn toward me, guided by sound and instinct, and lift her hands as if asking a question she already knew the answer to.
I always nodded. Even though she couldn’t see it. I would never deny her that one comfort. Framing her hands against my face before she slept seemed to calm her demons and help her sleep better.
Her fingers would find my jaw first. Careful. Curious. As if she was checking that I was still there, that I hadn’t shifted into something unfamiliar while I was away. She learned me slowly, methodically—like a map she was determined to memorize without shortcuts.
I learned to stay very still.
Not because I was afraid to move, but because this mattered. Because her touch wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Intentional. She wasn’t groping or reaching blindly. She was studying me.
Some nights she lingered on my cheekbones, thumbs brushing the curve beneath my eyes. Other nights she traced the bridge of my nose, following it down with a concentration that made my chest ache.
Her hands were warm. Steady. Confident in a way that surprised me every time. She explored my face the way someone might explore a place they intended to return to—committing every detail to memory.
When her fingers found my mouth, I always felt it first in my chest.
She never rushed there. Never treated it like an ending. Just another feature to learn. Another line to understand. Her thumb would brush my lower lip lightly, testing the shape, the softness, the way my breath changed beneath her touch.
Other nights she’d stop suddenly, hands dropping back into her lap with a small, satisfied nod, like she’d learned something new and needed time to let it settle.
When she was finished, she’d lean into me—head against my shoulder, my chest, wherever she fit that night—and I would wrap an arm around her. Always the same way. Firm. Secure. Predictable.
She slept better like that.
So did I.
It wasn’t desire that drove the ritual, though God knew it lived beneath the surface. It was something softer. Something deeper. Trust, built night after night, not through words or promises, but through repetition.
Through the simple act of letting her know—again and again—that I was exactly where she expected me to be.
And that I wasn’t going anywhere.
By the time she drifted off, her hands would still sometimes rest against my face, fingers curled slightly as if afraid I might disappear if she let go.
I never moved them.
I just stayed there, breathing evenly, letting her memorize me in the dark.
Because if this was how she learned the world again—then I would be the first thing she knew by heart.
Tonight, she leaned into me, tentative at first, her head resting against my chest. My heart thudded hard and fast, an unforgiving rhythm she had no way of seeing but somehow felt anyway.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I folded my arms around her.
Gently. Deliberately. Like I was afraid the moment would shatter if I moved too fast. She fit against me far too easily, her body warm, her weight grounding. It wasn’t desire that hit first—it was protectiveness. A gentle, dangerous kind of tenderness.
She exhaled, slow and deep, and something in my chest eased.
Then she pulled back.
She held me at arm’s length, her face tilted up toward mine. Even without sight, she knew exactly where I was—judging by proximity, by breath, by instinct. Her hands lifted again, palms pressing against my cheeks, steady and sure.
I froze.
She moved closer, until there were only inches between us. I could feel her breath now, warm and soft against my mouth. Too close. Too charged. Too dangerous.
There were lines. Even for me. And this—this was close to one of them.
“Samira,” I breathed.
I tried to pull back.
She held on.
“Don’t,” she gasped, fingers tightening at my arms.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” I said, the words meant as a warning—to her, to myself.
“I may be blind,” she replied, steady despite the tremor in her voice. “For now. I may not remember… how we met.” Her hand slipped from my face to her chest, tapping lightly over her heart. “But I know what I feel… in here.”
My eyes followed the movement, unbidden. Mesmerized.
God help me, I wasn’t blind. I wasn’t immune. Samira was captivating in a way that had nothing to do with sight—soft and fierce all at once, her presence undeniable. She was beautiful. She was tempting.
But I wasn’t that man.
Not the one who took from a woman who trusted him like this. Not the one who blurred the line just because he could.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she noted softly. “I’m not afraid. I know what I want.”
“Samira,” I warned again, my voice rough now.
She tilted her head slightly, lips parting just a fraction. “Unless you don’t find me attractive?”
Fuck.
Her words rang loud in my head, sharp and helpless.
I let out a slow breath and rested my forehead against hers, not touching her mouth, not giving in to the instinct screaming through me.
“This isn’t about attraction,” I told her. “If it were, this would be easy. Too easy.”
Her hands slid back to my face, thumbs brushing my jaw, exploratory and gentle. She waited.
And that—that was what undid me.
Because she wasn’t reaching blindly.
She was choosing.
“I won’t take from you. Not like this.”
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t argue.
“Then don’t take. Just… stay.”
So I did.
I held her again, closer this time—but still controlled. Her cheek pressed against my chest, my arms a shelter I swore to keep intact.
It wasn’t less because we stopped there.
It was more.
Because to every part of me that wanted to cross a line—and chose not to.
And that choice mattered more than anything else.