I lingered at the flower shop longer than I should have, the soft blur of blooms and memories anchoring me in place. Lavender spilled across the window in pale clusters, its scent sharp even through the glass, pulling me back to a garden long gone. My grandmother’s hands had tended to flowers like these, her touch deliberate, each petal a tiny act of care.
"Lavenders for peace," she used to say. "Even when the world feels too loud." But peace felt like a foreign concept now. The weight in my chest twisted tighter, stubborn and sharp, making each breath feel like a challenge.
I twisted the ring on my finger, the cool metal biting into my skin. It was a small relief, a grounding anchor against the ache threatening to overwhelm me. Still, the lavender held me there, demanding my attention like it carried answers I wasn’t ready to hear.
The hum of voices and footsteps filtered in from the street, distant but growing louder. Reality was waiting, pressing at the edges of the quiet moment. I closed my eyes and let out a slow, deliberate breath before stepping back from the window. The absence of the flowers hit immediately, their scent and colour still clinging to the edges of my mind. I didn’t look back as I turned toward the lot, my legs heavy with each step.
The distance to the car stretched impossibly long, the heat of the afternoon thick in the air. My thoughts swirled, tangled and restless, until the sound of footsteps on gravel cut through them.
Theo was waiting, leaning against the car with the kind of effortless ease I’d come to expect from him. The golden light of the afternoon caught on his broad shoulders, the curve of his biceps visible where his arms crossed over his chest. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, tracking me as I approached.
I tried not to meet his gaze, but it found me anyway. Steady. Quiet. Like he was already reading every thought I was too tired to hide.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and even. It wasn’t just a question—it was an invitation, one I wasn’t sure I could take.
I shrugged, the motion small, barely enough to count. “Just… took a minute,” I muttered.
Theo didn’t move, but something in his expression shifted, a flicker of concern that softened the sharpness of his eyes. “Thought you’d gone back in for another bouquet,” he said lightly, his tone teasing but not unkind. He straightened a little, his arms falling to his sides. “Everything okay?”
It was such a simple question, but the weight of it pressed against my chest. I twisted the ring again, my fingers restless against the cool band. “Yeah,” I said quickly, too quickly. “Just needed some air.”
Theo’s gaze lingered, his silence stretching long enough that I felt exposed under it. But he didn’t press. Instead, he stepped back and pulled open the car door, holding it for me without a word. The subtle gesture made my throat tighten, the quiet steadiness of his presence more grounding than I wanted to admit.
“Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. “We’ve got a long drive ahead.”
I nodded and slid into the car, the air inside cooler but no less heavy. As Theo settled beside me, the faint scent of lavender still clung to the edges of my thoughts, mixing with the warm, earthy musk that was uniquely his. My hand found the ring again, twisting it as the car rumbled to life, carrying us away from the flower shop and into the endless stretch of road ahead.
I slid into the backseat, pressing myself into the farthest corner as Theo followed. His broad frame filled the space beside me, his shoulder brushing mine briefly as he settled in. The soft thud of the door closing felt louder than it should have, and then there was the scent of him—soap and faint musk, warm and grounding—wrapping around me like a second skin.
The car ride back to the hotel was subdued. From the front seat, the low murmur of his dad and Marianne’s conversation blended with the rhythmic hum of the tires on asphalt, creating a steady background noise that didn’t quite drown out the tangle of my thoughts.
I kept my gaze fixed on the window, the fading sunlight painting the sky in deep hues of orange and pink. It should have been calming, beautiful even, but the weight in my chest refused to lift. Theo’s shoulder brushed mine again as the car turned, a brief touch that sent a spark of awareness through me, sharp and unshakable. I tried to focus on the world outside, but my attention kept slipping back to the warmth of him beside me, the quiet steadiness of his presence filling the small space between us.
When we pulled into the hotel lot, the air in the car felt heavier than it had when we’d started. Theo’s dad turned slightly in his seat, his voice brisk but warm. “Dinner in an hour. Don’t keep us waiting,” he said with a faint smile before climbing out.
Theo stretched as he stepped out, the motion effortless but deliberate. His broad shoulders rolled, catching the last light of the setting sun, and I couldn’t help but watch the way his body moved—how even something as simple as a stretch seemed to fill the air around him.
“Just enough time to clean up,” Theo said, his voice light but carrying a hint of something softer. His eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary, a quiet question lingering in his expression that I wasn’t ready to answer.
I nodded, stepping out into the warm evening air, which did little to ease the tightness in my chest. The hotel loomed ahead, its familiar facade bathed in a golden glow that should have been comforting but wasn’t. Theo fell into step beside me as we walked toward the entrance, his arm brushing mine again, the brief contact enough to send another jolt of awareness through me.
He didn’t speak, but his presence said enough. Steady. Reassuring. Like he knew I needed the silence more than the words.
The elevator hummed softly as it climbed, the confined space amplifying the silence between us. Theo leaned against the mirrored wall, his broad shoulders catching the fading light as he rolled them back with an easy motion. His reflection drew my attention briefly—solid and unshakable, like he carried the weight of the day without effort.
“I need another shower,” he muttered, his tone light, though the faint grin tugging at his lips hinted at something playful. “Sorry if I’m making this unbearable.”
I shook my head quickly, my voice tight but even. “It’s fine.”
His grin softened, and for a moment, his gaze flicked to me, searching, before he let it slide forward again. The air between us felt heavier than the elevator itself, the faint scent of him—clean, earthy, warm—lingering in the small space.
When the doors slid open, Theo stepped out first, his pace easy and unhurried as he led the way to our room. I followed, my steps slower, the knot in my chest tightening with every breath. Inside, the click of the door shutting behind us sounded louder than it should have, and for a moment, the stillness was suffocating.
Theo didn’t seem to notice. He moved with the same effortless ease, kicking off his shoes near the door—his massive sneakers taking up more space than seemed fair—and tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric caught briefly on his broad shoulders before slipping free, revealing the hard lines of his chest that seemed to catch every shadow.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, grabbing a fresh towel and flashing me a grin over his shoulder. “Don’t miss me too much.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The room felt emptier now, though Theo’s presence lingered in subtle ways: the faint warmth in the air, the scent he’d left behind, the imprint of his movements etched into the space around me.
I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me. My fingers found the ring on my hand, twisting it absently as I stared at the muted light filtering through the curtains. The ache in my chest hadn’t faded, but something about Theo’s voice echoed in my mind—a quiet reassurance I wasn’t sure I believed.
"I’m here."
The restaurant buzzed with conversation and the quiet clink of silverware, its warmth a stark contrast to the stillness of my thoughts. Theo’s dad and Marianne chatted lightly about the day’s sights, their voices blending seamlessly with the ambient hum of the room.
Theo, however, drew attention effortlessly. He scanned the menu with barely a glance before leaning back, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “I’m starving,” he announced, rubbing his hands together with mock enthusiasm. His voice was rich and easy, cutting through the quiet like it belonged there.
“When are you not?” Marianne asked dryly, her brow lifting with faint amusement.
Theo’s grin widened, unapologetic. “Fair point,” he said, leaning back further as his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his shirt. “Gotta fuel the machine.”
His dad chuckled, shaking his head. “Still growing, huh?”
“Always,” Theo replied, his tone light but assured. He didn’t need to say more; his presence was magnetic, his movements unhurried but deliberate, filling the space around him without effort.
Marianne smirked. “At this rate, you’ll eat us out of house and home.”
Theo flashed her another easy grin, his hand closing around his water glass with the same quiet confidence. “Guess I should say thanks in advance, then,” he said, his tone playful but warm.
The conversation shifted, his dad and Marianne falling into their usual rhythm of teasing remarks and familiar stories. But even as their words filled the space, Theo commanded attention—not through volume or antics, but simply by being. He wasn’t performing; he didn’t need to.
When the food arrived, Theo’s appetite became the new topic of conversation. Plates disappeared before him one after another, his grin widening as his dad made a joke about setting limits. Marianne joined in with mock warnings about empty cupboards, but Theo only laughed, the sound low and easy.
I barely touched my own plate, distracted by the way he moved. His hands—large and deliberate—wrapped easily around his utensils, every motion precise yet relaxed. He took up space without hesitation, his energy drawing my gaze repeatedly, even when I tried to look away.
Around us, the restaurant carried on as if nothing was out of place, the soft hum of voices blending with the clinking of dishes. But the knot in my chest didn’t ease. My thoughts twisted in endless loops, my fingers absently turning the ring on my hand as if its weight could ground me. No matter how hard I tried to stay in the moment, my gaze drifted back to Theo—the way he seemed so at ease, so certain in himself, a stark contrast to the storm in my own mind.
At one point, he caught me looking. His green-blue eyes flicked to mine, a flicker of awareness sparking in their depths. My breath caught as his expression softened—not teasing, not challenging, but steady and grounding, like he could anchor me with just a glance. I dropped my gaze quickly, heat rising to my face, but his presence lingered, impossible to ignore.
The elevator hummed softly as it climbed, the sound filling the silence between us. Theo leaned casually against the mirrored wall, his hands tucked into his pockets, his reflection catching my eye. Even at rest, there was something unshakable about him, like he carried his own calm no matter how heavy the air felt.
“Food coma setting in?” he asked lightly, his grin soft but carrying the faintest edge, as though he was testing the waters.
I managed a faint shrug, the corners of my mouth twitching upward in something that might have been a smile. “Something like that.”
His eyes lingered on me for a moment, searching, before the elevator pinged softly, signalling our floor. The silence between us didn’t break—it thickened, settling heavier as we walked down the hallway. Our footsteps echoed faintly against the muted hum of the air conditioning, and I felt the knot in my chest tighten with each step.
Theo unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let me in first. The familiar scent of the room hit me immediately: his faint musk, mingled with the sterile cleanliness of the hotel, wrapping around me like a physical thing. I moved slowly, placing my bag on the chair near the window as though careful not to draw too much attention to myself.
Behind me, the door clicked shut, sealing us into a silence that felt sharper now. Theo didn’t speak at first. He crossed the room with that same unhurried ease, sinking onto the edge of his bed. The mattress groaned faintly under his weight, but his movements were measured, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands hung loosely between them.
I kept my back to him, pretending to fuss with the curtain tie. The city lights outside blurred into streaks of white and amber against the glass. My fingers twisted the ring on my hand in small, deliberate motions, but the cool metal couldn’t ground me this time. Not with Theo’s gaze on me—quiet, steady, unyielding.
“You’ve been off all day,” he said finally, his voice low but certain. It wasn’t a question; it was an observation, cutting cleanly through the thick air between us.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, too quickly. The words sounded sharp even to my own ears. My hand clenched the curtain fabric, the tension in my chest threatening to spill over.
Theo let out a soft breath, the faintest trace of a chuckle beneath it. “You keep saying that,” he murmured, leaning back slightly. His movements made him seem larger somehow, like his presence could fill the entire room. “But I don’t think you believe it any more than I do.”
I turned halfway, crossing my arms over my chest without meeting his gaze. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”
“Fair enough,” Theo said easily, though his tone carried a gentler note beneath the words. “But back at the flower shop… you froze. You didn’t just zone out—you locked up. What was it?”
The question hit like a stone, sharp and unavoidable. My throat tightened, the tension coiling until it felt like it might snap. “It was nothing,” I said, my voice cracking despite the effort to keep it steady.
“It didn’t look like nothing,” Theo said quietly. He stood then, unhurried but deliberate, his steps slow as he crossed the room. He stopped just short of crowding me, his size deliberate but not overwhelming. “Hey,” he murmured, his hand hovering briefly before settling lightly on my shoulder. “You can tell me.”
His touch was warm, grounding, and something inside me cracked. The tears came without warning, hot and stinging, blurring my vision before I could stop them. I bit down hard on my lip, shaking my head as I stepped away from him, the emptiness of the space between us only making it worse.
“I can’t,” I whispered, the words barely audible, tumbling out like they’d been ripped from me.
Theo didn’t follow. He didn’t press. His hands dropped loosely to his sides, and he gave me what I so desperately needed: space. “Alright,” he said softly, his voice calm but steady. “Take your time.”
The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. My hands fumbled for the door handle, my movements shaky and uncoordinated. “I need to go… just for a cigarette,” I said finally, my voice uneven and weak. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Theo hesitated, and for a moment, I felt the weight of his concern pressing against my back. But when he spoke, his tone was quiet, steady. “Okay,” he said simply. “Take what you need.”
I didn’t look back as the door clicked shut behind me, the sound reverberating in the stillness of the hallway. The cool air hit me like a sudden gust, sharp against my heated skin. I leaned briefly against the wall, my breath shallow, each inhale sticking somewhere short of full.
The knot in my chest tightened, heavier now that I was alone. It wasn’t the kind of weight I could name—more like wires tangled together, pulling tighter every time I tried to undo them. My legs felt unsteady as I pushed myself forward, heading toward the stairs that led to the garden. When I stepped outside, the night air hit harder, bracing and cold, but not unwelcome. My hands shook as I reached for my cigarettes, the movement clumsy, as though my body wasn’t entirely mine.
The garden greeted me with quiet reverence, its stillness so complete it felt sacred. The leaves rustled faintly, their whispers weaving through the distant chirp of crickets. Overhead, the moon hung luminous and indifferent, its pale light stretching across the hedges and flower beds, softening the sharp edges of the world.
A bench tucked beneath an ancient oak, its branches arching overhead in broad, twisting lines that crisscrossed the cobblestone like veins. The bench’s surface was cold under me as I sat heavily, my legs weak, the weight inside me pressing down harder with each passing second. The air’s chill pricked at my skin, but it did little to reach the storm building inside.
My fingers fumbled with the cigarette, and the first drag clawed at my throat, leaving a sting in its wake. Smoke curled up into the night, thin and fleeting. I exhaled slowly, trying to focus on the rhythm—inhale, hold, exhale—but the wires inside me didn’t loosen. If anything, they pulled tighter, the knot hardening into something sharp and unbearable.
The flowers from earlier rushed back unbidden, their colours and scents vivid enough to drown me. My grandmother’s garden had been her sanctuary, a place where her hands coaxed life from the earth with the same deliberate care she’d given to everything. Lavender and jasmine had clung to her skin like a second layer, their scent so familiar that even now it felt like a memory I could reach out and touch.
The knot inside me tightened further, and my hand instinctively went to the ring on my finger. Its cool weight was a constant, a reminder—but tonight, it felt like more than that. Tonight, it was a burden, heavy with the truth of her absence. My chest ached as the first tear slid down, hot and unwelcome. I wiped it away quickly, but it was no use. The rest followed, silent and relentless, until I stopped trying to fight them.
I slipped the ring off, holding it between my fingers. The moonlight caught its smooth surface, illuminating every worn edge. It wasn’t ornate, just a plain band of silver, unbroken and eternal. She’d given it to me when I turned sixteen, her frail hands trembling as she slid it onto mine. “You’ll always have me with you,” she’d said, her voice steady, as though she could will it into truth.
Now, as I turned the ring over in my hand, her words felt like both a gift and a punishment. I wanted to believe her, but the hollow ache in my chest told me otherwise. I clenched the ring tightly, pressing it into my palm as though I could anchor myself with it, as though my grip alone could tether me to her.
The cigarette burned low, its heat searing my fingers as it reached the filter. I dropped it, grinding it into the cobblestones with more force than necessary. My hands still shook as I lit another, the flame small and fragile in the night breeze. This time, the smoke didn’t sting as much. It filled my lungs in a way that felt almost steadying, like I could breathe more evenly just by holding onto the act.
The garden seemed to hold its breath, the quiet wrapping around me like a cocoon. I leaned back against the bench, tipping my head up to stare at the moon. Its light stretched across the garden, softening the shadows into something almost kind. I focused on it, letting the stillness reach places inside me that felt jagged and raw.
For a fleeting moment, I could almost feel her there. The faint scent of flowers and earth lingered in my mind, wrapping me in a warmth I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t real—it could never be real—but it was enough to ease the weight in my chest.
Minutes slipped by unnoticed, the rhythm of my breath syncing with the stillness around me. Slowly, carefully, I slipped the ring back onto my finger. Its weight settled against my skin like a familiar ache, bittersweet but grounding.
I wiped at my face, the dampness of my tears clinging to my hands. The ache in my chest was still there, but it didn’t feel as suffocating. I wasn’t whole—not yet—but I could breathe again, and that was enough.
The garden whispered faintly around me, the rustle of leaves blending with the distant hum of crickets. The moonlight danced across the hedges, its silver glow a quiet reminder that the world kept moving, even when mine felt stuck.
And for the first time all day, I let myself exhale.
The soft crunch of footsteps against the cobblestones broke the stillness, unhurried and deliberate. I didn’t need to look up to know it was Theo. His steps carried that quiet confidence, the kind that announced his presence without overwhelming it. He didn’t rush, didn’t call out—just moved with a steady certainty, as though he trusted I wouldn’t push him away.
Still, I kept my gaze on the ground, my hands limp on my knees. The cool weight of the ring on my finger steadied me, its touch familiar, though it carried a heaviness tonight that I couldn’t quite shake.
“Mind if I sit?” Theo’s voice was low and careful, the kind of tone you’d use with someone about to shatter.
I nodded, a small gesture without looking at him, my hand motioning vaguely to the empty space beside me. The bench creaked faintly under his weight as he settled in. He sat close enough that I could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, but not so close as to intrude. It was an unspoken skill he had, finding the perfect balance between presence and space.
The garden seemed to hold its breath around us, the rustle of leaves soft and rhythmic against the distant chirp of crickets. The silence stretched, heavy but not stifling. Theo didn’t speak right away, didn’t fill the quiet with unnecessary words. He was just... there. Steady, like the oak above us, its roots deep and unmoving.
“I thought you might want some company,” he said finally, his voice soft and almost hesitant. His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers moving idly against the fabric of his jeans as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “But I didn’t want to push.”
I glanced at him then, my gaze catching his profile in the moonlight. His jaw was strong but relaxed, his expression calm and watchful, waiting rather than demanding. The way he always seemed to know when to step forward and when to hold back was both comforting and unnerving.
“You’re fine,” I murmured, my voice rough and brittle from crying and smoke. “Thanks for... giving me space.”
Theo nodded, his eyes flicking briefly to mine before returning to the garden. “You looked like you needed it,” he said simply. There was no judgment in his tone, just quiet understanding. “But I didn’t want you to feel alone.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside me, their weight pressing against a place that felt fragile and raw. Gratitude twisted with guilt in my chest, an uncomfortable knot that I couldn’t quite untangle. My fingers curled into fists against my knees. “I’m fine,” I said again, the words weak and hollow, even to me.
Theo didn’t challenge me. Instead, he shifted slightly, his arm brushing against mine as he leaned back. His hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder—not heavy, not demanding, just there.
The warmth of his touch undid something in me. I froze, my breath catching as the gentle pressure of his hand said more than any words could. Without thinking, I leaned toward him, my head resting against the curve of his shoulder.
Theo stilled for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected it, but then his arm shifted, wrapping around me in a way that felt natural, like it belonged there. His hand settled against my arm, his thumb brushing faintly over the fabric of my sleeve in slow, soothing circles.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Take your time.”
“She used to say lavender was for peace,” I murmured, my voice barely audible over the faint rustle of the garden. “But I don’t think I’ve ever felt it.”
The words lingered between us, raw and exposed in the quiet. I didn’t look at him, couldn’t, because saying it out loud made the ache in my chest feel sharper, more real. My fingers twisted the ring on my hand, the motion frantic, like I could rub the thought away.
Theo shifted beside me, his broad frame moving just enough to make his presence unavoidable. He didn’t fill the silence right away, and for a moment, I thought maybe he wouldn’t. That he’d let the weight of my words hang between us until I crushed myself under them.
But then his voice came, low and steady, cutting through the thick air like a thread. “Maybe peace isn’t something you find all at once.”
I flinched at the simplicity of it, the way his words landed too easily against the storm in my chest. “Maybe,” I said, my voice clipped. It sounded hollow even to me, like I didn’t believe it.
Theo didn’t press. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared out into the darkened garden. “Or maybe it’s not something you ‘find’ at all,” he said after a beat. His tone was quiet, reflective, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed it. “Maybe it’s something that finds you... when you stop trying so hard to make sense of it.”
I finally turned to him, the weight of his words drawing my gaze like a magnet. His profile was soft in the moonlight, but his jaw was set, his expression somewhere between thoughtful and vulnerable. The flicker of uncertainty there surprised me. Theo wasn’t supposed to be uncertain—he was always the grounded one, the unshakable force I could never seem to be.
“That sounds... convenient,” I said, more bitterly than I intended. The words snapped in the air between us, and I immediately regretted them. But Theo didn’t flinch. He just let them sit there, like he knew they weren’t really for him.
“I didn’t say it was easy,” he murmured. “Or that it wouldn’t take time.”
“Time.” I laughed under my breath, a short, humourless sound. “Is that your answer for everything?”
Theo turned then, his green-blue eyes catching mine. There was no challenge in his gaze, no frustration—just patience, the kind that made my chest ache even more. “What do you want me to say?” he asked softly. “That it’ll all make sense tomorrow? That if you twist that ring enough times, you’ll figure it out?”
The question hit harder than it should have, sharp and unrelenting. My fingers froze against the ring, and I dropped my hand to my lap, my chest tight with something I couldn’t name.
“It’s not that simple,” I muttered, my voice breaking on the last word. “None of this is.”
Theo’s expression softened, and for a moment, I thought he’d let it go. But then his arm shifted slightly, brushing against mine, and his hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder—not heavy, not demanding, just there.
The warmth of his touch undid something in me. I froze, my breath catching as the gentle pressure of his hand said more than any words could. Without thinking, I leaned toward him, my head resting against the curve of his shoulder.
Theo stilled for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected it, but then his arm shifted, wrapping around me in a way that felt natural, like it belonged there. His hand settled against my arm, his thumb brushing faintly over the fabric of my sleeve in slow, soothing circles.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Take your time.”
The knot in my chest began to loosen, not all at once, but slowly, piece by piece, as though his touch was untangling something inside me. I let myself sink into him, his warmth wrapping around me like a shield against the weight I’d been carrying all day. The faint scent of him—earthy and clean—mingled with the cool night air, anchoring me to the moment in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Lavender’s not peace,” I muttered, my voice muffled against his shoulder. “Not for me.”
Theo’s thumb stilled against my arm, just for a moment. “Maybe not yet,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it never will be.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside me, pressing into places that felt fragile and raw. I wanted to argue, to push against the steady patience in his voice, but my head stayed where it was, resting against the solid curve of his shoulder.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel untethered.
The knot in my chest began to loosen, not all at once, but slowly, piece by piece, as though his touch was untangling something inside me. I let myself sink into him, his warmth wrapping around me like a shield against the weight I’d been carrying all day. The faint scent of him—earthy and clean—mingled with the cool night air, anchoring me to the moment in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Theo didn’t speak again, and I didn’t need him to. The silence between us stretched wide and steady, not heavy but soothing, like the stillness of the garden was wrapping us both in its quiet embrace. His thumb brushed faintly against my arm, a rhythmic motion that seemed to sync with the steady rise and fall of his breathing. I found myself matching him, my own breaths falling into the same gentle rhythm, like it could keep me tethered to something solid.
We sat like that for what felt like hours, the jagged edges of my thoughts smoothing out under the weight of his quiet presence. The rough texture of his shirt pressed against my cheek, grounding me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. And yet, even as I leaned into him, a quiet part of my mind whispered reminders of how fragile this all was. What happens when this moment ends? What happens when I’m alone again?
The thought made my chest tighten faintly, a lingering echo of the storm I’d felt earlier. My fingers flexed against my lap, seeking the ring again, the cool metal pressing into my palm like it could anchor me against the tide of doubt. I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to pull away from the warmth and steadiness of Theo’s arm around me—but I knew I couldn’t stay there forever.
Finally, I pulled back, reluctant but certain, the chill of the evening air rushing in to fill the space where his warmth had been. Theo’s arm lingered briefly, his hand brushing my shoulder one last time before he let go. I could feel his gaze on me, warm and steady, asking a silent question I wasn’t ready to answer.
“Better?” he asked softly, his voice gentle, as though he already knew the answer.
I nodded, swallowing hard as I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I said, my voice steadier now, even if the word still felt fragile. “Thanks.”
Theo’s smile was faint but real, the corners of his mouth curving upward in the dim light. “Anytime,” he said simply, the ease in his tone carrying a weight that made me believe him.
The silence between us stretched again, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It carried something softer now, an understanding that didn’t need to be spoken. I let out a slow breath, the cool night air filling my lungs, and when I turned to Theo, his green-blue eyes caught mine. There was something in his gaze—something steady and patient, like he was willing to hold this space for me as long as I needed.
“Ready to head back up?” he asked gently.
I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the ground. The thought of returning to the room, to the closeness we’d shared earlier, felt daunting in ways I couldn’t quite name. But Theo’s patience, his steady presence beside me, made it easier to nod. “Yeah,” I murmured, standing and brushing my hands against my jeans. “Let’s go.”
Theo rose smoothly, his frame towering beside me but never imposing. As we turned toward the hotel, his hand brushed lightly against my back—not leading, not pushing, just there. A steadying presence, quiet and sure, grounding me as we stepped into the warmth of the building.
The quiet hum of the elevator filled the space between us as we rode up, the tension of earlier replaced by something softer, something quieter. Theo leaned casually against the mirrored wall, his green-blue eyes watching me without expectation, just... being there. For the first time, I let myself meet his gaze without flinching. His faint smile softened the edges of the silence, like he knew the weight I was carrying but wasn’t in any rush to take it from me.
The room welcomed us back with its familiar quiet, but the stillness carried an energy I couldn’t quite name. The hum of the air conditioner filled the space, a steady backdrop to the charged silence between us.
Theo moved toward his side of the room, his presence filling every corner without effort. His hands found the hem of his shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulled it over his head. The stretch of muscle beneath caught the light, the dark trail of hair on his chest disappearing below the waistband of his jeans.
I tried to look away, but my gaze betrayed me, snapping back as his fingers worked his belt with unhurried precision. When his jeans hit the floor, the sound was louder than it should have been. His boxers—black and fitted—clung to him, the outline beneath the fabric impossible to miss. My breath hitched, heat rising to my face as I turned away, my pulse quickening.
“You good?” Theo’s voice was low, warm, with the faintest hint of teasing.
“Yeah,” I muttered, too quickly. My hands fumbled faster, pulling at the fabric with clumsy urgency. By the time I stripped down to my boxers, my face burned, my chest tight with something I couldn’t name. When I climbed into bed, Theo shifted, sliding lower on the mattress until he lay on his back. His arm rested above his head, the easy sprawl of his body taking up more space than it should have.
I turned onto my side, facing the wall, trying to block out the weight of him behind me. But no matter how tightly I clutched the blanket, the air between us buzzed, charged with an energy that made my skin prickle.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to focus on something else. My thoughts wandered, taking me somewhere far from this room, back to the garden where my grandmother’s hands had shaped life from the earth. I could see her there, kneeling in the soil, her fingers careful but sure as she guided the lavender to grow tall and strong. The scent of wild jasmine hung in the air, clinging to her like a second skin.
I could almost feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the scratch of grass against my knees. Her voice echoed faintly, soft and steady, explaining how to care for each flower as though it was the most important lesson in the world. My chest tightened, the weight of her absence pressing down like it always did when I thought of her. I twisted the ring on my finger, the cool metal grounding me in the memory, holding me there as I sank deeper into the past.
The memory wrapped around me like a warm blanket, vivid and familiar. I could almost hear her voice, low and steady, explaining how lavender needed space to breathe, how jasmine grew wild if you didn’t keep it contained. The scent of the garden clung to the edges of my mind, a mix of earth and flowers, rich and grounding. I twisted the ring on my finger, the cool metal anchoring me to her, even here, even now.
The bed felt miles away from that garden, its edges hard and cold compared to the warmth of the sun in my memory. I sank deeper into the past, her voice growing softer but steadier, weaving through the moment like a thread I didn’t want to lose. I could almost feel the scratch of grass beneath my fingers, the scent of earth rich in the air.
And then the mattress shifted.
The movement was subtle, a faint creak of springs as Theo moved closer. The sound pulled me back, the vividness of the memory dissolving into the dim quiet of the room. I kept my eyes closed, willing my breathing to stay even, but the air between us felt heavier, charged with something I didn’t know how to name.
His warmth was the first thing I noticed—radiating from him as he shifted toward me. The faint rustle of sheets followed, and then the weight of him, pressing faintly into the space between us. His breath brushed against my cheek, soft and shallow, and my chest tightened at the closeness.
Then it happened—his body shifted just enough for the solid heat of him to press against my thigh. The contact was firm, unmistakable, the weight of him leaving a searing imprint on my skin even through the thin fabric of his boxers. My breath hitched, but I stayed perfectly still, my eyes shut, my pulse racing.
Theo didn’t react, didn’t pull away. Maybe he didn’t notice—or maybe he thought I wouldn’t. His breathing changed, growing slower, more deliberate, as though he were trying to steady himself. And then, I felt it: a soft, hesitant press of his lips against my temple.
When his lips met mine fully, the world stilled. My breath caught, the warmth of him anchoring me even as my pulse raced, wild and uneven. His kiss was steady, patient—everything I wasn’t. It wasn’t deep or insistent—just a whisper of a kiss, delicate and tender, like something he couldn’t hold back anymore. His lips stayed for a moment, warm and soft, before he pulled back, the mattress creaking faintly beneath his weight as he retreated.
His lips had been soft, careful, like he was terrified of breaking something fragile. But the weight of it—the tenderness—felt like too much. Or maybe it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know which scared me more.
I thought I felt his breath hitch, just barely, like even he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this. But then his lips pressed to my temple again, as though the hesitation hadn’t been real—or as though he’d decided not to let it stop him.
As he moved away, his body pressed against me again, the heat and solid weight of him sending another jolt of awareness through me before the space between us grew again. He settled onto his side of the bed, the faint rustle of sheets the only sound as his breathing evened out.
I didn’t move, my chest tight, every part of me hyper-aware of him—his warmth, his presence, the phantom press of his lips and the solid weight of his body still etched into my thoughts. The air conditioner hummed softly, steady and grounding, but it couldn’t drown out the memory of what had just happened.
I stayed still, my fingers twisting the ring on my hand, the cool metal biting into my skin. For a long time, I lay there, my eyes shut tight, caught between the memory of the garden and the impossible closeness of Theo beside me.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pull him closer—or if I was terrified he’d already gotten too close.
I’ve found myself resonating deeply with the protagonist, which is why the story is unfolding slowly. Originally, I didn’t plan for him to face such serious struggles, but it felt natural to align some of my own ways of thinking with his. Like him, I’m struggling—but writing this feels like a way to explore how he might navigate through it, and maybe that can help me too.
While this isn’t a true story, it’s rooted in some of my thoughts and fantasies. I truly value your comments and feedback. I have ideas about where the story is heading, but I’m always open to hearing your thoughts and suggestions. Feel free to share them—I’d love to hear from you. :)
