Olivia #2
Every time I blinked, it was there—his voice low and wrecked, the way he'd looked at me like touching me was both salvation and damnation. The desperate edge in his kiss, the restraint fracturing with every passing second until he'd torn himself away like it physically hurt.
My cheeks burned.
Ben's voice cut through the haze. "You okay?"
I jerked my attention back to him, pulse hammering. "What?"
He set down the breadstick, expression uncertain. "I'm not boring you, am I? I know I talk a lot when I'm nervous."
"No. God, no." Guilt twisted sharp in my chest. "You're not boring at all. I'm just—" I forced a smile, reaching for my water glass. "Tired. Long shift. I'm sorry."
His shoulders relaxed. "Don't apologize. I get it." That easy grin returned, warm and guileless. "We can take it slow. No pressure."
I nodded, throat tight.
Slow.
Right.
Because Ben was the kind of guy who meant that. Unlike the man I couldn't stop thinking about.
The waitress returned with our plates—steaming pasta, the scent of basil and garlic rising in a cloud that made my stomach clench with sudden hunger. I picked up my fork and twirled it through the fettuccine, bringing it to my lips without thinking.
The first bite hit my system like a revelation.
Rich. Warm. Real food I'd forgotten I needed.
I swallowed and realized with startling clarity that I hadn't eaten since the stale granola bar I'd choked down before my shift that morning. Fourteen hours ago. My body had been running on adrenaline and caffeine and the hollow ache of wanting things I couldn't have.
"Good, right?" Ben leaned forward, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched me take another bite.
"Really good," I admitted, the words muffled around pasta I should have chewed more thoroughly.
He laughed—bright and uncomplicated—and pushed the bread basket across the table toward me. "Eat. You look like you need it more than compliments."
Heat crept up my neck but I grabbed another piece anyway, grateful for something to do with my hands. For the excuse to look down at my plate instead of meeting his eyes.
Normal. This was normal.
A guy who noticed when I was hungry and cared enough to make sure I ate. Who laughed easily and told stories that didn't carry the weight of unspoken trauma. Who looked at me like I was someone worth taking to dinner, not someone he needed to avoid in hallways and flee from in parking lots.
I wanted to like this.
God, I wanted to. Wanted to let the warmth of this moment settle into my chest and chase away the cold that had lived there for weeks.
Wanted to stop cataloging the differences between Ben's easy affection and Rhys's controlled distance.
Wanted to stop comparing the way Ben's hand brushed mine when he passed the salt to the way Rhys's fingers had trembled when they gripped my wrists.
I stabbed my fork into the pasta harder than necessary.
Stop.
Ben was talking again—something about the restaurant's history, how his roommate's sister worked here—and I nodded along, forcing myself to focus on the cadence of his voice instead of the phantom heat of Rhys's mouth moving against mine.
It didn't work. Every time I closed my eyes to take a bite, I saw dark eyes and controlled fury barely leashed. Every time Ben smiled, I measured it against the memory of Rhys looking at me like touching me might destroy us both.
I took another bite and hated myself for wishing I was somewhere else.
With someone else.
Ben set down his fork and tilted his head, studying me with an openness that made my chest tighten. "You have really pretty eyes," he said, voice soft. "I don't think I've told you that yet."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Oh. I—thank you."
The compliment landed warm and sincere, exactly the kind of thing a girl should want to hear on a first date. Should make her pulse skip. Should make her feel seen in the right way.
But there were no sparks. No electric jolt. No breath catching in my throat. Just warmth and gratitude and the uncomfortable awareness that I should be feeling more than I was.
I looked down at my plate, fumbling with my napkin.
Ben reached across the table—slow, telegraphed—and brushed his thumb against my cheek. Gentle. Careful. His touch feather-light as he caught a crumb I hadn't felt.
"Got it," he murmured, pulling back with an easy smile.
My stomach twisted.
Because all I could think about was Rhys.
Rhys's hands—rough, calloused, trembling with barely controlled restraint—circling my wrists hard enough to leave phantom impressions on my skin.
The way he'd caged me against the wall like I was something he needed to possess but couldn't allow himself to keep.
The desperate edge in his grip, violence and tenderness tangled so tightly I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Ben's touch was kind. Respectful. Safe. Everything I should want.
And I hated—hated—that it felt like nothing compared to the memory of Rhys pinning me in place with hands that shook because he wanted me too much.
I forced myself to meet Ben's eyes, to smile like I wasn't comparing every gentle gesture to the controlled fury of a man who kissed me like he was drowning.
"Thanks," I managed, voice steadier than I felt.
Ben settled back in his chair, oblivious to the war raging behind my ribs.
He picked up his wine glass, still smiling that open, uncomplicated smile.
And I sat there hating myself. Hating that safety felt hollow.
Hating that I wanted the danger more. Hating that even here—on a date with someone good and kind and present—I was thinking about the man who wouldn't stay.
I reached for my water glass and swallowed hard, willing the guilt down.
This was supposed to be moving forward. It felt like drowning instead.