16. Elena
— ? —
Elena
It takes me four hours to send the text.
I type it, delete it, type it again, stare at the screen until the words blur. What I want to say is simple. Why is it so hard to say it?
Come over tonight. 7 p.m. I’ll make dinner.
His response comes in thirty seconds.
I’ll bring wine.
***
By the time he arrives, I’ve changed clothes three times, overcooked the pasta twice, and convinced myself this is a terrible idea at least a dozen times.
He knocks at exactly 7 p.m.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door.
He’s holding two bottles of wine, one red, one white, and wearing jeans and a sweater instead of his usual suit. He looks almost normal. Almost like the man I fell in love with before everything went wrong.
“Hi.” He hands me the bottles. “I didn’t know what you were making, so I brought options.”
“Pasta. Badly made pasta, but pasta.”
“My favorite.”
We eat at my tiny table, drinking the red wine and talking about nothing important, the Miller commission, his latest board meeting, a new restaurant Sophie recommended. The kind of conversation that could happen between any two people.
But underneath it, something else is building.
I can feel his attention on me, careful and watchful. He’s been so patient these past weeks, showing up when I ask, backing off when I need space, never pushing for more than I’m ready to give.
I’m tired of being careful.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, setting down my wine glass.
Adrian tenses slightly. “Okay.”
“I’ve been holding back. On purpose.” I take a breath. “Not because I don’t trust you, or maybe because I don’t trust myself. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to disappear back into your phone, or let your mother say something cruel, or…”
“I understand.”
“Let me finish.” I reach across the table and take his hand. “I’m not doing that anymore. The holding back, the protecting myself, the punishing you for things that might happen instead of things that have. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you.”
His hand tightens around mine. “Elena…”
“Stay tonight.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“Not because I feel obligated,” I continue. “Not because you earned it or proved yourself or did enough grand gestures to unlock some achievement. Because I want you to. Because I miss you. Because I’m tired of sleeping alone when the person I love is a phone call away.”
“You love me?”
“I never stopped.” My voice catches. “I was so angry, and so hurt, and so convinced I’d been a fool, but I never stopped loving you. That’s why it hurt so much.”
He stands up, comes around the table, pulls me to my feet. His hands cup my face, gentle, trembling.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
He kisses me.
***
It’s different from before.
The blackout sex was desperate, months of grief and wanting crashing out against my apartment door. This is something else. Something slower. Something that feels like a question instead of an answer.
I pull back just far enough to see his face.
“Bedroom,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve been sure for weeks.” I take his hand and lead him toward the door. “I was just too stubborn to admit it.”
The bedroom is dim, just the lamp on my nightstand, casting warm shadows across the unmade sheets. I turn to face him.
“Can I?” I reach for the hem of his sweater.
He nods.
I undress him slowly, sweater over his head, shirt unbuttoned one slow button at a time, belt unbuckled with deliberate patience. He stands perfectly still, letting me set the pace, his breath coming faster as more of his skin is revealed.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of doing something wrong. Of ruining this again.” He catches my hand, presses it to his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm. “Of losing you again.”
“You won’t.” I press up on my toes to kiss him. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He makes a sound against my mouth, relief, maybe, or something beyond words, and his arms come around me, pulling me close.
We move to the bed.
He lays me down like I’m something precious, something that might break if he’s not careful. His body covers mine, warm and solid, and for a moment we just breathe together, foreheads touching, eyes locked, the weight of him grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “Every night. I’d lie awake imagining this, touching you, holding you, and it felt like torture.”
“Then touch me.”
His hands move slowly, tracing paths across my body like he’s relearning me. The curve of my hip. The dip of my waist. The soft skin below my navel that makes me gasp when he brushes it.
“Look at you.” His voice is awed. “God, look at you.”
“Adrian…”
“I know. I know, I’m going slow.” He presses a kiss to my collarbone. “Let me go slow. I want to remember every second.”
He undresses me with the same deliberate patience I used on him, pulling my shirt over my head, unhooking my bra with fingers that only tremble slightly, sliding my jeans down my hips with reverent attention.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”
I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, pins them gently above my head.
“Not yet.” He kisses down my neck, my chest, the valley between my breasts. “Let me take care of you first.”
His mouth finds my nipple and I arch into him, gasping. He takes his time, licking, sucking, teasing until I’m writhing beneath him, until my breath comes in ragged bursts.
“That’s it.” His voice is soft against my skin. “That’s my girl. Let me hear you.”
He moves lower, kissing down my stomach, across my hip, along the inside of my thigh. I feel his breath against my center and moan.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Touch me. I need…”
“I know what you need.” His tongue finds my clit and my whole body jerks. “I’ve got you.”
He works me slowly, deliberately, long strokes that build heat without satisfying it, gentle suction that makes me see stars. I tangle my fingers in his hair, not pushing, just holding on.
“You taste so good.” His voice vibrates against me. “I dreamed about this. About making you come with my mouth.”
“Adrian…” I’m close, so close, my thighs shaking around his head. “I need you inside me.”
He looks up at me, chin wet, eyes dark with want. “Not yet. I want to feel you come like this first.”
“Please…”
“So good for me.” He slides two fingers inside and I cry out. “That’s it. Let go.”
The orgasm rolls through me in waves, not the sharp explosion of the blackout, but something deeper, slower, like I’m dissolving into pleasure instead of being consumed by it. I feel tears prick my eyes and don’t try to stop them.
He kisses his way back up my body, settling between my thighs. I can feel him hard against me, can feel how much he’s been holding back.
“Are you okay?” He brushes a tear from my cheek.
“More than okay.” I pull him down for a kiss, tasting myself on his lips. “I want you. Inside me. Now.”
“Look at me.”
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine, soft and vulnerable in the lamplight.
“I love you,” he says. “I’m going to love you every day for the rest of my life. Even if you get angry. Even if we fight. Even if everything goes wrong, I will love you.”
“I love you too.” My voice breaks. “Now please…”
He pushes inside me.
Slow. Achingly, impossibly slow. Inch by inch, giving my body time to adjust, watching my face for any sign of discomfort.
“Okay?” he breathes.
“Perfect.” I wrap my legs around him. “You feel perfect.”
He starts to move, long, deep strokes that build something warm in my belly. Not the desperate urgency of before, but something gentler. Something that feels like coming home.
“I missed this.” His forehead presses against mine. “Missed being inside you. Missed the sounds you make.”
“What sounds?”
“This one…” He angles his hips and I gasp. “And this one…” Another thrust, deeper, and I moan. “And this one, my favorite…” He reaches between us, finds my clit, and I cry out his name.
“That one,” he murmurs. “That’s my favorite.”
We move together, finding a rhythm that’s unhurried but not passive, each thrust intentional, each touch deliberate. I can feel another orgasm building, different from the first, deeper somehow.
“I’m close,” I whisper.
“I know. I can feel you.” His pace quickens slightly. “Come with me. I want to feel you when I…”
“Yes…”
It crashes over us at the same moment, my body clenching around him, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me, both of us gasping and shaking and holding on to each other like we might drown if we let go.
For a long time afterward, we just lie there. Tangled in sheets that smell like us, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on my back.
“I’m still scared,” I admit quietly.
“Of what?”
“Of trusting this. Of believing it’s real.” I press my face into his shoulder. “Of waking up and finding out I dreamed the whole thing.”
“I’m scared too.” His arms tighten around me. “But maybe… maybe that’s okay. Maybe we don’t have to not be scared. Maybe we just learn to be scared together.”
I close my eyes. For the first time in months, sleep feels possible.
***
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I almost ignore it, almost let it go to voicemail and deal with it tomorrow, but something makes me reach for it. Some instinct I can’t explain.
The text is from an unknown number. I open it, and the warmth drains from my body.
It’s a photo. Adrian at a restaurant, leaning close to a woman I don’t recognize, dark hair, elegant dress, intimate body language. The timestamp says December 3rd.
Below the photo, a message:
He’s not who you think he is. Ask him about December 3rd.
I stare at the screen.
“Elena?” Adrian’s voice is sleepy, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I turn to face him, and something in my expression makes him sit up.
“Adrian.” My voice is ice. “Who is this woman?”