Aiden

You'd long lived with a fear that was almost imperceptible. It hid in distance, in cautious smiles, in the habit of closing off when someone got too close. Trauma had taught you the most important thing: never trust completely.

When you met Aiden Morris, you weren't eighteen anymore. He was thirty. Calm, reserved, he listened more than he spoke. Around him, you didn't feel like defending yourself or explaining yourself. On your third date, you told him about your fear—not too specific, but honest. He simply nodded.

• Thank you for telling me.

And he didn't "fix" anything. You were together. Carefully. He always waited, asking with his eyes, accepting your pauses. You saw his desire—and how he consciously chose patience. The years passed, and sometimes you were afraid he would tire. But he stayed.

There was nothing special that evening. You were sitting next to each other, as usual. And suddenly you realized: the fear was still there, but it no longer controlled you.

“Aiden...” you said quietly.

• Yes?

• I want you.

He didn't touch. "I want to be sure you're ready."

“I’m sure,” you said. “Just not today.”

He exhaled and answered almost immediately.

— Tomorrow. If you're ready.