Chapter 8 #2
Because I was used to people needing me strong. Needing me useful. Needing me calm. I was used to being the one who handled things, paid things, fixed things, protected people from storms they sometimes created.
I was not used to being held in the middle of my own sentence.
I wrapped my arms around her slowly.
She fit against me like she had been made from a prayer I was too proud to speak.
“I think he’d be proud,” she said softly.
My throat tightened.
I closed my eyes and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry in the pasta.”
A laugh broke out of me, rough and relieved.
“There she go,” I said.
“I had to. It got too tender.”
“I liked tender.”
“I know. That’s why I had to interrupt it before I started singing background vocals.”
I leaned back enough to look at her. “You always run from sweet moments?”
“Not run. Jog.”
I smiled and brushed my thumb along her cheek. “Stay.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“I’m right here,” she whispered.
Dinner should’ve taken twenty minutes.
It took almost an hour because we kept stopping to talk, laugh, and look at each other like we were trying to memorize something.
We ate at the island, side by side. Monica complimented the pasta twice, then accused me of trying to trap her with garlic bread.
“I see your strategy,” she said, tearing off another piece.
“My strategy is working?”
“Unfortunately.”
After dinner, she helped me clean up, even though I told her she didn’t have to. She washed dishes while I dried, bumping me with her hip when I got too close.
“You have a dishwasher,” she said.
“I know.”
“So why are we hand-washing?”
“Because you started washing.”
“I was being polite.”
“And I was standing near you.”
She looked over at me. “You like domestic stuff?”
“With the right woman.”
She turned back to the sink quickly. “You just say things with no warning.”
“I can start raising my hand first.”
“Please do.”
I dried the last plate and set it in the cabinet.
When I turned back, she was wiping her hands on a towel, standing in my kitchen like she belonged there and was trying very hard not to know it.
The silence changed.
Not awkward.
Aware.
Her eyes moved to mine.
I stepped closer.
She didn’t move away.
“Monica.”
She inhaled softly. “Eric.”
“I want to kiss you.”
Her mouth curved. “You always ask?”
“With you? Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like hearing you choose me.”
The smile faded from her face.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that told me I had hit something tender.
She stepped closer, lifted her hand to my chest, and whispered, “Then kiss me.”
So I did.
Slow.
Deep.
Like I meant it.
Because I did.
Her hands slid around my neck, and mine settled at her waist. The kiss started soft, but softness with Monica had a way of turning into heat. She kissed me like she had been holding herself back all night and was tired of being careful. Like she trusted me enough to stop bracing for impact.
I pulled her closer, and she came without hesitation.
That almost undid me.
Her body fit against mine, warm and real, and I had to remind myself of every promise I had made without saying it out loud.
Do not rush her.
Do not take more than she gives.
Do not turn trust into pressure.
Monica pulled back first, eyes heavy, lips parted.
“You still behaving?” she whispered.
“Barely.”
Her smile was small and dangerous. “Good.”
I let out a low breath. “Monica.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
Her hands slid from my neck to my chest. “I’m sure I want you close.”
“That’s not the same as—”
“I know what I said.”
I held her gaze.
She was nervous.
But she wasn’t afraid.
That mattered.
I brushed my knuckles down her cheek. “We can just sit on the couch. Talk. Watch something. I’m good with whatever keeps you comfortable.”
Her eyes softened. “Why you got to be so respectful?”
I smiled. “You mad?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me want you more.”
My restraint almost packed a bag and left.
I closed my eyes for half a second. “You testing me.”
“No,” she whispered. “I’m trusting you.”
That was the sentence that changed the room.
Not into something wild.
Into something sacred.
I took her hand and led her to the living room. We sat on the couch at first, side by side, the house quiet around us. I turned on a lamp, low and warm. No TV. No music. Just us and the kind of silence that didn’t need covering.
Monica leaned into me slowly.
I put my arm around her.
For a while, we didn’t say much.
Her fingers traced the tattoo on my forearm, light and thoughtful.
“What’s this date?” she asked.
“My father’s birthday.”
“And this one?”
“The day he passed.”
She nodded, still tracing.
“Does it hurt when people ask?”
“Not when they care about the answer.”
She looked up at me.
“I care,” she said.
“I know.”
I kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes.
Then her hand came to my face, thumb brushing my beard, and she kissed me this time.
Not playful.
Not hesitant.
A choice.
The kiss deepened slowly, and the air around us warmed. Her body turned toward mine, and I pulled her carefully into my lap, giving her every chance to change her mind.
She didn’t.
She settled against me, her dress rising slightly over her knees, her hands in my hair, her mouth soft and demanding at the same time.
I had kissed women before.
But this felt different.
Not because of technique. Not because of lust.
Because Monica kissed like somebody finally letting the locked door open from the inside.
I held her like I knew what that cost.
When my mouth moved to her jaw, she exhaled my name in a way that made my entire body go still.
“Say it again,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Her fingers tightened against my shoulders.
“Eric.”
I stood with her in my arms.
She gasped, then laughed against my neck. “You just picking people up now?”
“Just you.”
“I’m not small.”
“I’m not weak.”
She looked at me, and the laughter faded.
I carried her down the hall to my bedroom, slow enough that she could stop me, careful enough that she knew I would.
At the doorway, I paused.
The room was clean. Bed made. Lamps low. Nothing staged. Nothing forced.
Just my space.
And now her in it.
I set her down gently.
She looked around, then back at me.
“You sure?” I asked again.
She stepped closer, took my hand, and placed it over her heart.
It was beating fast.
So was mine.
“I’m nervous,” she admitted.
“Okay.”
“But not unsure.”
I bent my head until my forehead touched hers. “Then we go slow.”
She nodded.
“We stop anytime.”
She nodded again.
“And I’m still here tomorrow.”
Her eyes opened.
That was the thing she needed to hear.
Not that she was beautiful.
Not that I wanted her.
She knew both.
She needed to know this wasn’t where softness ended.
“I’m still here tomorrow,” I repeated.
Her eyes glistened. “You better be.”
I kissed her.
And after that, the night became ours.
Soft touches. Slow kisses. Clothes loosened and fell away with laughter, shyness, heat, and trust. I learned the places that made her breath catch. She learned that I meant every word about patience. Nothing between us felt rushed or taken. It felt given. Chosen. Built one tender moment at a time.
I loved her with my hands like she was precious.
With my mouth like she was poetry.
With my body like I understood the difference between wanting a woman and honoring her.
And when she whispered my name in the dark, holding on to me like the fear had finally gone quiet, something inside me settled.
Not because I had her.
Because she had let me love her there.
In the safest part of the night.
Later, she lay against my chest, one leg tangled with mine, hair spread across my shoulder, her breathing slow but not asleep.
My hand moved gently up and down her back.
“You awake?” I asked.
“No.”
I smiled. “You answering in your sleep?”
“Yes.”
I kissed her temple. “You good?”
She lifted her head slightly and gave me a sleepy look. “If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to start charging.”
“I’ll pay.”
“With cheesecake.”
“Done.”
She laid her head back down.
A few minutes passed.
Then she said, “Eric?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant what I said earlier.”
“Which part?”
“About not running.”
My chest tightened.
“I know,” I said.
“I might walk fast sometimes.”
I smiled. “I know.”
“And panic internally.”
“I figured.”
“And overthink.”
“I’m prepared.”
“And occasionally threaten to block you.”
“Occasionally?”
“Don’t push it.”
I laughed softly.
She lifted her head again. “But I’m not running.”
I looked down at her, this woman who had walked into my life for wings and somehow ended up in my bed, in my arms, in places I had not let anybody touch in years.
“I’m not letting you run alone anyway,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “That sounded controlling.”
I smiled. “Then let me rephrase. If you feel like running, I’ll walk beside you until you remember you don’t have to.”
Her face changed.
Softened.
Melted.
“See,” she whispered, “that’s how you get on my nerves.”
I kissed her. “Good.”
She fell asleep after that, curled against me like she had been fighting rest for years and finally lost.
I stayed awake a little longer.
Listening to her breathe.
Feeling the weight of her trust against me.
Thinking about how fast life could change when the right person stepped into the wrong day.
By morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains and touched her face.
Monica woke up slowly, blinking like she had forgotten where she was. Then she looked at me and froze.
I smiled. “Morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m breakfast.”
“I was thinking coffee first.”
She pulled the sheet up under her chin. “You always this chipper after sin?”
I laughed, loud and surprised.
She smiled, satisfied with herself.
“We did not sin,” I said.
“You sure? Because I might need to stretch before I repent.”
I dropped my head back against the pillow, laughing harder.
She laughed too, and just like that, any awkwardness left the room.
That was us.