Dominic #2
“No.” She presses her thumb against the edge of her phone case. “I’d rather have accurate expectations than spend the evening adjusting my own.”
She spent months learning every probability. The call still hurts. “It doesn’t help.”
“No.”
I want to pull her against me. After twelve days of giving her room, even comfort can become a way to make the decision for her.
“May I touch you?” I ask, the words feeling formal and inadequate after Saturday night.
Elena looks at me for a long second, then nods.
I draw her into my arms. She rests her forehead against my chest, and I hold her without telling her the next attempt will work or reducing her disappointment to a statistic.
Her hands settle lightly at my sides. When her fingers move against my shirt, I remember those same hands opening my belt.
I loosen my hold and wait for her to step back.
Elena steps back, but she doesn’t move away. “The second appointment is still on the calendar.”
“I blocked the time.”
“It’s tentative until monitoring confirms the date.”
“I’ll keep the window open.”
She nods and looks down at my tie. “You don’t want another clinical attempt.”
“This morning isn’t about what I want,” I say, because telling her the truth right now would be another form of pressure.
“That’s an evasive answer.”
“Maybe.” I wait until she meets my eyes again. “I agreed to the clinic. I’ll be there if that’s still your choice.”
“It is.”
She answers quickly, then looks away.
I touch her fingers, and she turns her palm against mine. The memory of the couch hits all at once—the weight of her, the feel of her skin finally warm and unguarded against mine.
Elena pulls in a slow breath. “About Saturday.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I wasn’t going to apologize again.”
“Good.”
“You also don’t get to decide what I was going to say.”
“Fair.”
Her thumb moves once against my skin. “I don’t regret asking you upstairs.”
I catch myself gripping her fingers and loosen my hold.
She looks down at our hands. “I regret that I can’t make today feel completely separate from it. The clinic was supposed to be the simple part.”
“Was it?”
She gives me a tired look. “This is why I reconsider telling you things.”
“Because I listen?”
“Because you find the argument someone is most attached to and keep pulling at it until it unravels.”
I let her go. “Then I won’t push.”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
“Stopping was your right,” I say. “It still is. Nothing about Saturday, or this, changes that. I’m not looking for an opening.”
“I know that.”
“I need you to know I do too.” I hold her gaze, making it a promise.
She looks down for a moment, then nods. “I do.”
I want to tell her the clinic felt wrong after having her in my arms. I haven’t stopped wanting the final step she refused, and part of my disappointment this morning comes from knowing another clinical procedure is already scheduled. I keep it to myself.
Elena straightens her shoulders. “We have the nine-thirty call.”
“Evan can move it.”
“I don’t want him to.”
“All right.”
She reaches for the door, then glances back at me. “Thank you for not promising the next attempt will work.”
“I won’t lie to make you feel better for thirty seconds,” I say, though it feels like an insufficient sort of comfort.
She gives me a small nod. “I know.”
She opens the door, and we go back to work.
That night, I stand in my kitchen with Elena’s name open on my phone.
I’ve already asked once whether she made it home. She answered that she had and that she was fine. I believe she’s home. I don’t believe she’s fine. ‘Fine’ is the word she uses to shut a door before I can walk through it.
I type, Have dinner with me.
It would be easy to defend the invitation. She received bad news this morning, and we’re attempting to have a child together. We should be able to discuss what happens next somewhere other than my office.
Every reason would be a cover for wanting to see her.
I want Elena across from me at a table with no clinic packet between us. Another night with her friends would let me watch her become warmer and louder around people who know her outside work. Then I picture taking her home, following her into the elevator, and hearing her tell me she’s sure.
I picture her in my bed, on my couch, and here long enough to leave an earring beside my sink or a charger plugged in near the couch because she expects to return without needing an appointment or an excuse.
Saturday proved our chemistry isn’t the problem. Elena trusts me enough to ask for what she wants and to stop when wanting it becomes too much. I know how hard that trust was for her to give.
Using this morning’s disappointment to get her alone would cheapen it.
I delete the message.
Then I think about the other ways I could get her alone with me.
I could schedule a review of the next clinic window.
I could tell Evan to keep the end of the day clear, ask Elena to stay after a meeting, or offer to drive her home the next time we work late.
Each option would look reasonable because our lives already overlap in a dozen legitimate ways.
They would also let me ignore the space she asked for.
I’m accustomed to decisions with deadlines.
If someone wants a deal, I expect them to say yes, say no, or identify the condition preventing an answer.
Elena doesn’t owe me that kind of certainty about her body.
She wanted me Saturday and still chose to stop.
I don’t get to force those decisions into one permanent answer just to make this easier for me.
Patience isn’t the same as waiting for rejection. On quiet days, I can trust what she actually told me instead of deciding she must have changed her mind. I know what happened between us, and I know she didn’t regret it. That is enough information for tonight.
If Elena never chooses to go further, I’ll accept it. I won’t pretend that answer would be painless, but pain still wouldn’t entitle me to keep testing the boundary until she gets tired of defending it.
Elena told me Saturday that sex would change this. She was right, and I still wanted her to let me continue.
I want her to ask because she wants me, with no appointment or contract clause giving her a practical explanation. When we cross that line, the decision has to belong to her.
Wanting her doesn’t give me permission to arrange the conditions until she gives in. I won’t use a late meeting, a ride home, or the clinic to get her alone.
The restraint is going to be fucking miserable, and I can live with that.
I close our messages and set my phone facedown on the counter. The invitation stays deleted.