Chapter 15
Eve
Ican’t sleep.
The cottage is quiet, properly quiet. No traffic, no neighbours, just the soft creak of the walls and the wind brushing against the window. It should be peaceful, but my mind refuses to switch off.
There’s a feeling sitting in my chest, restless and warm, like my body doesn’t quite know what to do with itself. It’s ridiculous, really. It's not the first time that we are alone, but somehow it feels different this time. With him just a few steps away. Closer. Real.
I turn over and pull the duvet tighter. It doesn’t help. The warmth still builds, steady and impossible to ignore.
It isn’t just a crush. It’s something deeper, something that feels like it has been growing quietly for a while, waiting for me to notice. It’s terrifying.
I want to tell him. To just say it. That I like him.
That he makes me feel seen without ever putting me on the spot.
That he’s the first person in a long time who makes me forget to hold my breath.
But how do you say that when you have spent half your life hiding behind careful words and polite smiles?
What are you supposed to do with something that feels this big when you live inside a body that panics at being noticed?
I close my eyes and tell myself I will sleep soon. That it will feel less intense in the morning.
But even as I listen to the wind outside and the steady quiet of the cottage around me, I know it won’t.
I give up trying to sleep after what feels like hours. The harder I try to quiet my mind, the louder it gets.
Eventually, I reach for my phone. Bad idea, I know. Blue light and all that. But staring at the ceiling isn’t helping, so I type the first thing that comes to mind into the search bar.
What to do if you’re shy and you like someone?
A dozen links appear. I click the first one.
If you are shy, you can tell someone you like them by starting with subtle hints or indirect methods, like writing a note or doing a kind gesture, such as making them a coffee.
Alternatively, you can build up to a more direct conversation by practising conversation skills and starting with small interactions, or by asking them to join a group activity to remove the pressure of a one-on-one conversation.
I scroll to the next link.
Write a note. If you're not comfortable saying it in person, a handwritten note is a great way to express your feelings without the immediate pressure of a verbal conversation.
Make small gestures. Show your interest through your actions. For example, offer to get them a coffee, or send them a funny meme about a shared interest.
Drop hints. Casually mention things you like about them or their interests when you chat.
I huff a quiet laugh. None of this sounds remotely like me. I don’t drop hints. I overanalyse every word I say until it barely makes sense.
Start with small talk. Practice initiating brief, low-stakes conversations.
Just do it. While nerve-wracking, sometimes the best approach is to simply be direct.
“Right,” I whisper to the phone. “Just do it. Simple.”
I lock the screen and set it face down on the bedside table, staring into the dark. My heart’s still thudding.
If I were the kind of person who could just do it, I’d already have told him. But I’m not. I’m the kind who writes unsent emails and rehearses conversations in her head until the moment’s long gone.
Still, the words keep circling like a chant. Just do it.
It’s ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. But the longer I lie there, the more impossible it feels to stay still. Before I can think too much, I throw back the covers and reach for my bra, tugging it on out of bait as much as need. My feet are freezing as they hit the floorboards.
“Just do it,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s not a big deal. You’re just… talking.”
Talking. In the middle of the night. To the man currently asleep next door. Perfectly normal behaviour.
My pulse is hammering by the time I reach his door. I hesitate, hand hovering over the handle. My mind has split into two voices: one yelling turn around now and the other whispering you’ve come this far.
I take a deep breath and ease the door open. It gives a tiny creak that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.
The room is dark, lit only by a sliver of moonlight sneaking past the curtains. I step inside, barely breathing, unsure whether I’m hoping he’s awake or praying he isn’t.
I’m about to retreat, already berating myself, when he suddenly sits up.
The sound that leaves me isn’t elegant. It’s a full, startled scream.
Aaron flinches, half tangled in the duvet. “Bloody hell, Eve!”
My heart nearly launches itself out of my chest. “You scared me!”
He is rubbing at his eyes. “You scared me! What are you doing in here?”
I’m frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, trying to find oxygen or dignity—ideally both. “I… I don’t know,” I manage.
Which, unfortunately, is the absolute truth.
Aaron reaches for the bedside lamp, and the room fills with soft, golden light. My breath hitches before my brain even catches up.
He’s standing now, and he’s… oh God, he’s only wearing tight boxers. Nothing is left to the imagination.
Heat rushes to my face so fast it’s a miracle I don’t burst into flames on the spot. Every sensible thought I’ve ever had is gone. My mind is just static and panic and a very firm awareness that I should absolutely not be here.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, already taking a step back. “I shouldn’t have—”
Before I can finish fleeing, he reaches out and gently catches my wrist. The touch is light, careful. “Wait,” he says quietly. “If you go stomping off, you’ll wake Mr Pamir.”
He closes the door, turning the handle softly so it doesn’t click too loudly. The small movement feels far too intimate in the quiet.
When he turns back, his eyes find mine. There’s no irritation there, just curiosity and something else I can’t quite name.
“So,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Can I ask again? What are you doing in here?”
My mouth opens, but no words come out. My thoughts are a mess of excuses, apologies, and the sudden realisation that I’m standing in his room, in my pyjamas, talking to a half-naked man I very much like.
“I… couldn’t sleep,” I manage at last.
His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “And that led you here?”
I nod, mortified. “Apparently.”
He studies me for a moment longer, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and fragile all at once.
My pulse is everywhere at once. The room feels too small, the air too warm. He’s still watching me, waiting, and I don’t know where to put my hands or my eyes or my thoughts.
I take a shaky breath. “Do you remember at the spa? When you asked me during truth or dare if I ever felt lonely?”
His expression softens immediately. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Well,” I whisper, staring at the floor, “I think I finally understand what lonely actually means.”
He doesn’t speak, just waits, and somehow that makes it easier to keep going.
“There’s the normal kind,” I say quietly.
“The sort you get used to. The one that’s just…
silence and space. I thought that was all there was.
But lately, it’s been different. There’s lonely, and then there’s lonely while wishing you were with someone.
Since that week in St Claire, it’s been that second one.
Because being on my own suddenly meant not being with you. ”
I chance a glance at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are studying me intently.
“I used to make myself wait to reply to your emails,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Just so I wouldn’t seem… too keen. I’d write back straight away and then delete it, telling myself to wait an hour.
Or a day. Sometimes I’d even draft three versions before sending one that sounded normal. ”
A small, nervous laugh escapes me. “And that time I didn’t reply for two weeks…
it wasn’t because I was busy. I was trying so hard to act like I had a life, like I wasn’t sitting there refreshing my inbox.
By the end of it, I’d tied myself in knots over what to say, because every sentence sounded like please don’t think I’m pathetic. ”
I swallow hard, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s ridiculous, I know. But I didn’t want you to think I was waiting for you, even though I was.”
When I finally look up, his eyes are steady on mine. There’s no laughter there, no teasing, just quiet understanding that sets off a thousand butterflies in my stomach.
“I know it’s not the most glamorous confession,” I say softly. “But it’s the truth.”
I take a shaky breath and step back, desperate to escape before I humiliate myself any further. “I should go,” I murmur, already turning towards the door.
But his hand closes lightly around my wrist. Not stopping me, not pulling—just enough to keep me there.
“Eve,” he says quietly.
I freeze.
When I look at him again, he’s closer. The light from the lamp softens the sharp lines of his face, but his eyes are intent, searching.
“Can I ask you something?”
I nod, even though my throat feels too tight for words.
He hesitates for half a second, then says, “When you say you missed me… was that as a friend, or as something more?”
My heartbeat stumbles.
There’s no teasing in his voice, no trace of that cheeky humour he always hides behind. Just honesty. It makes it impossible to lie, even to myself.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. My brain is shouting at me to run, to deflect, to joke, to do anything but stand here in a pjs and bare feet while he looks at me like that.
Instead, I whisper, “More.”
The word feels terrifying and freeing at once.
Aaron’s fingers tighten slightly around my wrist—just a fraction—then loosen again, giving me the space to choose what happens next.
The word still hangs between us when my throat tightens again. I want to stop talking, but everything that’s been locked away for years feels like it’s spilling out all at once.
“I don’t really know what to do next,” I admit quietly. “I’ve only ever had one relationship… if a few dates and a disappointing sexual encounter counts as a relationship. One night with a guy I barely knew twenty years ago. And nothing since.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “I don’t even know if I’d be any good at it.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, and that makes it worse somehow. Because the truth is, saying it out loud makes me feel small.
“I know it’s pathetic,” I whisper. “I’m shy, I overthink everything, and I panic at the stupidest things. I’m basically the human version of a caution sign. And that’s not what men want. They want someone confident, someone who knows what they’re doing. Not… me.”
I look down, unable to meet his eyes, waiting for the silence to turn heavy.
For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sound of my breathing, uneven and shallow. I can’t look at him. I can’t bear to see the expression that confirms what I already know.
Then his hand moves. He reaches out and tilts my chin up, gentle but firm enough that I can’t look away. My heart stumbles.
His eyes are steady on mine, warm and impossibly calm. “Eve,” he says quietly, “I don’t care what other men want.”
The words land with a weight that knocks the air right out of me.
He takes a small step closer, his hand still light against my jaw. “I want you.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. The distance between us is nothing, a heartbeat, a breath. I can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his thumb where it rests against my skin.
I don’t move. I can’t.
Because no one has ever said anything like that to me before—not like this, not like it means something.
For a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s so close that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes.
Something shifts—quiet, certain, inevitable.
The world narrows to the space between us and the sound of my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
When he finally closes the distance, the moment feels both impossible and exactly right.
Everything inside me goes still, and then everything comes alive.