Gabriel’s Confession #2
"Can I—" I pulled back just far enough to look at her face. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark. "Can I touch you?"
She didn't ask where. She didn't pretend to misunderstand.
"Yes," she said.
My hands shook as I fumbled with the button of her jeans. The denim was stiff, the button stubborn, and I couldn't get it open. I couldn't. My fingers were useless, trembling, betraying me the way they always did when I wanted something too much.
"Here." She covered my hands with hers, stilling them. "Slow. Like this."
She guided my fingers to the button, showed me the angle, pressed down until it came free. Then the zipper, the rasp of metal on metal, and then I was pushing my hand inside her jeans, inside her underwear, my palm sliding against the soft skin of her stomach.
"Is this okay?" I asked.
"Yes."
"I've never—I mean, I've touched people before, but not—not like this—"
"Gabriel." She put her hand on my cheek. "It's okay. I'll show you."
She guided my hand lower. I felt the heat of her first—a warmth that radiated through her skin, through the thin cotton of her underwear, through my palm. Then the wetness. The softness. The way her body opened to me like a flower.
"Here," she said, moving my fingers. "Like that."
I touched her the way she showed me. I watched her face—the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her lips parted, the way her breath came faster. I learned what she liked by the sounds she made, the small hitches and gasps, the way her hips pressed into my hand when I did something right.
"That's good," she whispered. "That's—Gabriel—"
She said my name and something in me broke.
I was already close—had been close since she kissed me, since her tongue touched mine, since she pressed her body against me in the wicker chair.
The sound of my name on her lips, breathless and wanting, pushed me over the edge.
I came in my pants like a teenager, my body jerking against hers, a low groan escaping my throat.
She stopped. Her hand went still on top of mine.
"Gabriel?"
I pulled away. Mortification flooded through me, hot and red, burning my cheeks, my chest, the back of my neck. I couldn't look at her. I stared at the orchids instead, at their purple petals, at the way they swayed in the breeze from the humidifier.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry. That was—"
"Gabriel. Look at me."
I couldn't. I couldn't.
She put her hand on my chin and turned my face toward hers.
"It's okay," she said. "That was..."
"Embarrassing."
"Cute."
I flinched. "Cute?"
She smiled—a real smile, warm and gentle, not mocking at all. "You're blushing. You came in your pants because I said your name. That's the most adorable thing that's ever happened to me."
"Adorable is worse than cute."
"Sweet, then. Endearing. Charming." She touched my cheek, and I leaned into her palm like a starved thing.
"Gabriel, I don't care. I don't care about any of that.
I care that you held my hand when I was crying.
I care that you listen to me talk about veterinary medicine like it matters.
I care that you want to be a doctor because you want to save people. "
"I also want to—"
"I know what you want." Her voice dropped. "I want it too. But we have time. There's no rush."
"There is a rush. There's always a rush. My father—Nathan—this house—"
"Then we take the time we have." She kissed me—soft this time, almost chaste. "And we don't waste it worrying about things we can't control."
I pulled her into my arms. She fit against me like she'd been made for it, her head tucked under my chin, her arms around my waist. The greenhouse was dark now, the last of the light gone, the only illumination coming from the small LED grow lights above the orchids.
"I've been watching you," I said. "I know I told you that before. But I don't think you understand what I meant."
"Then explain."
I took a breath. The words were hard. They were the hardest words I'd ever said.
"From the first night I saw you—through the window of the diner, when my father was sitting at the counter—I couldn't look away.
I told myself it was curiosity. Concern.
I told myself I was trying to understand what was happening to him.
But that was a lie. I was watching you. Only you. And I haven't stopped."
Her arms tightened around me.
"I know how that sounds. I know it sounds obsessive.
Maybe it is. Maybe I'm obsessive. But you're the first person in my entire life who has looked at me and seen something other than a Mire.
You see Gabriel. Just Gabriel. The boy who wants to be a doctor.
The boy who held his mother's hand while she died.
The boy who's terrified of becoming his father. "
"You're not going to become your father."
"You don't know that."
"I know." She pulled back and looked at me. Her eyes were steady. Certain. "You're not him, Gabriel. You're not Nathan. You're you. And you're good."
I kissed her forehead. Her nose. The corner of her mouth.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For seeing me."
She smiled. The dim light caught her face, illuminated the curve of her lips, the softness in her eyes.
"Thank you for letting me."
We stayed in the greenhouse until the stars came out.
We didn't talk much after that. There wasn't anything left to say—not tonight, not in this place, not when the air between us felt so fragile and so precious. I held her. She held me. The orchids bloomed in the dark, indifferent to our presence, their petals glowing faintly in the LED light.
When we finally walked back to the house, her hand was in mine. My father was standing at the window in the library, watching us. I saw his silhouette against the glass, the pale oval of his face, the faint glint of his eyes.
He didn't move. He didn't call out. He just watched.
I squeezed Monika's hand. She squeezed back.
Whatever happened next—whatever my father wanted, whatever Nathan planned, whatever this family would demand of us—we would face it together.
I swore it to myself in the dark.
I swore it to her without words.
And for the first time in seven years, I felt something that might have been hope.
That night, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling.
My hand still smelled like her. I pressed my fingers to my face, inhaling, trying to memorize the scent. Something floral—her shampoo, maybe—and underneath, something that was just her. Something that I would know anywhere.
I touched myself that night, thinking about her. The way she'd looked in the greenhouse. The way she'd said my name. The way she'd guided my hand, patient and gentle, teaching me what she liked.
I came thinking about her face.
Afterward, I lay in the dark and made a vow.
I would learn her body the way I was learning medicine—thoroughly, obsessively, with every ounce of attention I possessed. I would learn what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her fall apart in my arms. I would learn it until I knew her better than I knew myself.
And I would never come in my pants like a teenager again.
She'd called it cute. I hated that word. Cute was for puppies and children and things that didn't matter.
What I felt for her was not cute. It was a fire. An obsession. The kind of love that consumed everything it touched.
I closed my eyes and saw her face.
I smiled in the dark.
Tomorrow, I would do better.
Tomorrow, I would start learning.