Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Idon’t go to training.
I wait in my study, not the training room, because I'm not sure my presence there would be welcome. The clock on my desk marks the hour we usually begin. Then the hour after.
She doesn't come looking for me either.
This is what she asked for. Space. Distance. Time to decide if I'm worth trusting again.
I should be patient.
Instead, I'm pacing my study like a caged animal, fighting the urge to go to her door and beg for another chance.
I don't go.
The briefing that evening is torture.
She's there, taking the same seat as before, near the end of the table.
Not at my right hand. Not claiming anything.
Just present. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the sharp cut of her jaw.
She's wearing something simple, black and fitted, and I hate that I notice.
Hate that I catalog every detail like a man memorizing something precious before it's taken away.
I force myself to focus on the agenda. On the reports. On the strategic adjustments we need to make.
But I'm aware of her in a way that borders on painful. Every shift of her body. Every time she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her fingers tap against the table when she's thinking.
I present the updated donor protection strategy. Credit her analysis publicly, because she deserves the recognition, and because I need her to see that I listened.
"Based on the intelligence review, we're reallocating resources to donor protection. The infrastructure can be rebuilt, but Celeste was right. Fear is the real weapon. We need to address that first."
I say her name without looking at her.
If I look at her, I'll lose the thread of whatever I'm saying. I'll forget there are other people in this room.
The briefing ends. I gather my documents. Speak briefly with Marcellus about patrol schedules.
Walk out without looking back.
Every step away from her feels like walking through water. Heavy. Wrong.
I make it to the corridor before I have to stop and press my hand against the wall.
This is what she asked for.
I repeat it like a prayer.
I round a corner near the library, and there she is.
Twenty feet of marble and shadow between us. She's changed since the briefing, wearing something softer now, a gray sweater that looks like it would be warm beneath my hands. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, dark waves catching the low light.
She sees me. Stops.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
I could close the distance. Could find something to say, some excuse to hear her voice. The wanting is a physical thing, pulling at my chest, urging me forward.
I nod instead. A small inclination of my head, formal and distant.
Then I turn down a different corridor and walk away.
It takes everything I have.
I haven't been feeding properly.
The hunger is there, a persistent ache beneath my ribs, but it feels muted compared to the other ache that's consumed me. I'm sitting in my study, staring at reports I've already read three times, when the door opens without a knock.
Marcellus takes one look at me and stops.
"You look like hell."
"So I've been told."
"Have you fed? Properly?"
The silence answers for him.
"Maximus." He crosses the room and drops into the chair across from my desk. "She told you to give her space. Not to starve yourself into uselessness."
"I'm giving her what she asked for."
"Are you?" He leans forward. "There's a difference between respecting her boundaries and disappearing entirely. One is what she asked for. The other is avoidance."
"I don't know where the line is."
"Then figure it out. You can be present without being pushy. Available without being demanding." He pauses. "You credited her in the briefing. That was good. But one gesture doesn't rebuild trust. You need consistency. Night after night, choice after choice."
"And if it's not enough?"
"Then you accept that and let her go." His voice softens slightly. "But you're not there yet. She asked for space, not for you to vanish. There's still something worth fighting for."
He stands.
"Feed. And stop hiding in your study." He pauses at the threshold. "You told her you'd prove yourself with actions. Hard to do that when she never sees you."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the silence.
He's right. Hiding isn't proving anything. It's just another form of control, deciding for her that she's better off without my presence instead of letting her make that choice herself.
I need to find the middle ground. Present but not pushing. Available but not demanding.
I need to stop disappearing.
I find myself outside her door without meaning to go there.
The wood is solid oak, heavy enough to muffle sound. But I can sense her presence on the other side. That awareness of her that's developed over these weeks, tuned to her proximity like a compass finding north.
She's awake. Moving. I hear the soft pad of footsteps, the rustle of fabric.
My hand rises toward the door.
I imagine knocking. Imagine her opening it, her dark hair loose, her brown eyes wary but not closed. Imagine finding the words to explain what I feel.
I lower my hand.
She asked for space. And I will keep giving it to her, keep proving that her choices matter more to me than my wanting.
Even when my wanting feels like it might hollow me out entirely.
I walk to the training room instead.
It's empty at this hour. Good. I don't want witnesses for what I'm about to do.
I strip off my jacket and push my sleeves past my elbows. The first punching bag hangs from its chain, worn leather waiting to absorb whatever I need to pour into it.
I hit it.
The impact shudders up my arm, satisfying in a way nothing else has been. I hit it again. Again. Finding a rhythm, letting my body take over.
For a few minutes, there's nothing but the strike and the impact. No thoughts of her. No memory of holding my hand an inch from her face. No phantom sensation of almost touching her cheek.
The bag splits on the forty-seventh hit.
Sand pours onto the mats. I stand there, watching my knuckles heal.
It's not enough.
I move to the next bag.
Another briefing.
I make myself engage this time. Not just present the information and leave, but stay. Be visible. Let her see that I'm here, that I'm not running, that I can exist in her orbit without pushing.
She asks a question about the northeastern sector coverage. Her voice is professional, steady, but I hear the slight hesitation underneath.
I answer her question. Meet her eyes for the first time since the conference room.
Two seconds. Maybe three. Long enough to see the wariness there. Long enough to see something else underneath it, something that might be curiosity or might be hope.
I look away first.
After the briefing, I linger. Not obviously. Just taking my time with the documents, giving her the opportunity to approach if she wants to.
She doesn't.
She gathers her things and leaves with the others, and I watch her go.
But she glanced back once before she reached the door.
That's something.
I spend the following nights in the war room, refining the donor protection protocols. Making notes in the margins. Improving the system she identified as flawed.
If I can't show her who I am with words, I'll show her with work.
I'm deep in the northeastern sector analysis when I feel her.
That pull. That awareness. Like gravity redirecting itself.
I turn and open the door.
She's standing in the doorway, one hand raised like she was about to knock.
Her dark hair is loose, falling past her shoulders in waves that catch the low light.
Her eyes are uncertain but determined. She's wearing the gray sweater again, soft and fitted, and my fingers ache to know if it feels as warm as it looks.
"Celeste." My voice comes out rough. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I just..." She steps into the room. The distance between us shrinks. "I wanted to look at the donor protection updates. Elena mentioned there were adjustments."
A lie. We both know it.
I don't call her on it.
"Of course." I gesture toward the table, trying not to notice the way my hand wants to reach for her instead. "The files are there. The northeastern sector still has some gaps."
She moves closer. Stops at the edge of the table and looks down at the files. I don't think she's seeing them.
"You've been thorough," she says quietly.
"It's important. You were right to flag it."
She looks up. Our eyes meet across the scattered papers.
The shadows under her eyes match mine. She hasn't been resting well either. Some selfish part of me is glad. The rest of me wants to fix it, to make everything easier for her, even if that means staying away.
"Why didn't you come to training?" she asks.
The question lands like a blow. She noticed. She cared.
"I wasn't sure if you wanted me there."
"I didn't say I didn't want you there. I said step back. In that moment. That room."
"I know." I struggle to find the words. "But I didn't want to assume. Didn't want to push into spaces where you might not want me."
"I needed to know you could respect my choices. That doesn't mean I needed you to disappear."
Something cracks in my chest.
"I'm sorry. I'm not good at this. At knowing where the line is."
"Neither am I."
The admission hangs between us. An offering.
I move around the table before I can stop myself. Slowly. Carefully. Giving her every chance to tell me to stop.
She doesn't.
I stop two feet away.
Close enough to smell her, that scent that's been haunting me, something floral and warm underneath the compound's antiseptic air.
Close enough to see the slight tremor in her hands.
Close enough to count her eyelashes if I wanted to, dark against her pale skin, framing those eyes that see too much.
"I've thought about you constantly." The words escape before I can catch them. "Every hour. I kept walking to your door and stopping myself. Kept reaching for you in rooms where you weren't."
Her breath catches. The small sound undoes something in me.
"Maximus."
"I know I'm not supposed to say this. I know you asked for space." I stop. Force myself to breathe even though I don't need to. "But you're here. And I can't pretend I don't want you closer. I can't pretend these past nights haven't been the longest of my existence."
"Don't." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Don't say anything else."
I go still.
We stand there, two feet apart, the space between us thick with everything we're not doing. I can feel the pull toward her. Can see her feeling it too. The wanting is a living thing, straining against the leash I've wrapped around it.
My hands flex at my sides. Every instinct screams to close the distance, to cup her face in my palms, to kiss her until neither of us can think.
I don't move.
She asked me to stop. And I will keep stopping, keep stepping back, keep proving myself, for as long as she needs.
"I should go," I say. The words feel like swallowing glass.
"Yes."
I don't move.
"Maximus."
"I know." The breath I release is ragged. "I know."
I make myself turn. Make myself walk toward the door. Every step is an act of will. Every inch of distance feels like something tearing.
I'm almost there when I hear her move.
Footsteps. Quick. Determined.
"Maximus. Wait."
I stop. Turn.
She's standing in the middle of the room, her hands curled into fists at her sides, her eyes blazing with something I'm afraid to name.
"I'm done waiting," she says. "I'm done hiding. I'm done using my freedom to build walls against the one person I actually want to let in."
I don't move. Don't breathe.
"Celeste..."
"You stepped back when I asked you to. You gave me space. You proved that my choices matter more to you than your wanting." She takes a step toward me. Then another. "So now I'm making a choice."
"What choice?"
She crosses the remaining distance. Stops close enough that her scent floods my senses.
"Don't step back this time." Her voice is low. Certain. "Don't walk away. Don't give me space."
My control shatters.