34. Alexander #2
“And I don’t know yet. Wanting it and being ready for it aren’t quite the same thing.” She closed the laptop again, setting it aside, and took my hands in hers. “But I’m not opposed to the idea. I’m not running away from the possibility.”
“What do you need? To be ready?”
“Time. Space to figure out what marriage means to me now, instead of what it meant before.” She squeezed my fingers.
“I spent so long being afraid of that word. Afraid of what it would mean to give myself to someone again, to make promises that might break us both. But I’m not afraid anymore. I’m just… cautious.”
“Cautious is reasonable.”
“Cautious is self-preservation.” She smiled slightly. “I’m learning there’s a difference.”
“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.” She leaned forward and kissed me, soft and certain. “That’s what makes this feel different. You’re not pushing. You’re not trying to convince me. You’re just… here.”
“I’ll always be here.”
“I know that too.”
She pulled back, and I saw tears forming in her eyes. Not sad tears, not quite. Just the tears that came when feelings got too big to contain.
“I’m not saying no,” she said. “I’m saying not yet.”
“Not yet is more than enough.”
She nodded, then stood up from the bed. “I’m going to make dinner. Try not to start planning a wedding while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
“At least don’t pick out invitations.”
“I make no commitments regarding invitations.”
She laughed and moved toward the door. I watched her go, my chest aching with love and gratitude and the strange, overwhelming relief of having said the thing I’d been holding back for months.
“Sophia.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back.
“I want to marry you,” I said. “I don’t need you to be ready just because I am.”
Her smile was soft, private, the one she reserved for moments when words weren’t enough.
“I know, Alex. That’s what makes you worth waiting for.”
She left, and I sat on the bed staring at my closed laptop, processing what had just happened.
She hadn’t said yes. But she hadn’t said no either. She’d said not yet, which meant someday was possible. Which meant the future I’d been afraid to imagine might actually exist.
I could wait. I’d spent three years learning how to wait for her.
I could wait a little longer.
That night, we ate dinner on the balcony, watching the Florence sunset paint the sky in colors I’d never seen in Paris. The conversation drifted through easy topics: her commission, my meeting with Henri, the ongoing mystery of where my cufflinks kept disappearing to.
But underneath the ordinary words, a current ran between us. An awareness of what had been said, and what hadn’t. A recognition that the conversation in the bedroom had changed things, even if neither of us could name exactly how.
We cleaned up together, moving around each other in the kitchen with the practiced ease of people who’d learned each other’s rhythms. Sophia washed while I dried, our shoulders brushing occasionally, our silence comfortable rather than tense.
When the last dish was put away, she turned to face me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“About?”
“About what you said. About wanting to marry me.”
I went still, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had settled over her.
“I’ve been thinking about it for months,” she continued. “Longer than I admitted earlier. I’ve been imagining what it would be like, standing across from you again, making promises we might actually keep. But every time I got close to wanting it, I got scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing myself again. Of becoming the woman who slowly disappeared inside our marriage, who made herself smaller and quieter just to keep you.” She moved closer, near enough that the faint traces of tears showed in her eyes.
“But I’m not that woman anymore. I can’t become her again, because I’ve changed too much.
I know who I am now. I know what I need.
And I know that loving you doesn’t mean losing myself. ”
“It never did. I was just too blind to see the cost of what I was asking.”
“I know.” She reached up and touched my face, her palm warm against my cheek. “That’s what makes this feel different. You see me now. Really see me, in a way you never did before.”
“I see you,” I said. “I’ll always see you.”
“Then show me.”
The words were an invitation. A request. A challenge I’d been waiting for without knowing I was waiting.
I kissed her slowly, letting the moment build, letting her set the pace. Her hands slid up my chest and around my neck, pulling me closer, and I felt her breath catch when our bodies pressed together.
“Bedroom,” she murmured against my mouth.
“You’re certain?”
“About everything, tonight.” She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “I want you, Alex. I want you to show me what forever feels like.”
We made our way through the apartment, shedding clothes as we went. Not frantically, not desperately, but with a deliberate slowness close to prayer. Her shirt first, then mine. Her hands working my belt while I unclasped her bra, both of us pausing to look, to touch, to memorize.
The bedroom was dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. I laid her down on the bed and took a moment just to look at her, to let myself fully absorb the reality of this woman, this life, this impossible second chance.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I’m appreciating.”
“You can appreciate while also doing other things.”
“I could. But I’m choosing to appreciate first.” I lowered myself beside her, propping myself on one elbow.
“You’re beautiful, Sophia. You’ve always been beautiful.
But right now, in this light, knowing what I know about us, about what we’ve survived and what we’re building…
you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I’m feeling very romantic.”
“I noticed.” Her hand found mine, guided it to her hip. “Touch me, Alex. Stop talking and touch me.”
I touched her.
Slowly. Reverently. Like she was sacred ground I’d been granted permission to walk on. My hand traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her breast. She arched into my palm, her breath quickening, and I watched her face as pleasure started to bloom across her features.
“More,” she whispered.
“Patience.”
“I’ve been patient for months.”
“A few more minutes won’t kill you.” My mouth grazed her collarbone, unhurried, proving the point.
“It might, actually. I might die of anticipation.”
“Then you’ll die beautifully.”
She laughed, and I swallowed the sound with my mouth, kissing her deeply while my hand continued its exploration. Down her stomach, over her hip, between her thighs. She was already wet, and the discovery made me groan against her lips.
“You want this,” I said. A statement, not a question.
“I want you.” She spread her legs wider, giving me access. “I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
I gave her everything.
My fingers slid through her folds, stroking, learning, remembering, then pushed inside her slick and easy.
She gasped when my thumb found her clit, and I worked her there in slow, deliberate circles, my fingers curling into the spot that made her shake.
Her hips moved against my hand, seeking more, and I gave her more, but not enough. Not yet.
“Alex,” she breathed. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t make me beg.”
“I’m not making you do anything.” I kissed her neck, the sensitive place below her ear. “I’m just taking my time.”
“Your time is killing me.”
“Good things are worth waiting for.” I grinned against her skin, entirely too pleased with myself.
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
“After we’re married, you’ll inherit everything anyway. There’s no need for violence.”
She laughed again, the sound turning into a moan as I increased the pressure, the speed. I could feel her getting close, could feel the tension building in her body, the way her breath came faster and her fingers gripped the sheets.
And then I stopped.
“Alexander.” Her voice was strangled. “What are you doing?”
“Making you wait.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate you right now.”