I swore I’d never let another man close again. Not after him. My ex-husband didn’t just break my trust—he shattered the part of me that believed love could be gentle. Every bruise, every threat, every night I cried quietly so he wouldn’t hear… it carved fear into my bones. When I finally escaped, I told myself that was it. No more relationships. No more risks. No more men.

But then I met you.

I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want to feel anything. Yet somehow, you slipped into my life like light through a cracked door—soft, steady, patient. You didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t treat me like something to fix. You simply stayed. And slowly… painfully slowly… I let myself lean toward you.

By the time we started dating, the fear was still there, coiled like a shadow inside me. So I laid down boundaries—clear, strict, non-negotiable.

No sudden touches. No intimacy. No crossing lines.

I waited for the moment you’d get tired of it, the moment you’d roll your eyes or sigh in frustration like my ex used to. But you didn’t. You just nodded, met my gaze with quiet understanding, and said:

“Whatever you need, Olivia. I’ll wait.”

And that—those simple words—broke me in a way kindness only can.

Our dates were soft, slow, almost cautious. We’d sit close without touching, walk side by side with space between us, talk for hours about everything and nothing. And for the first time in years… I didn’t feel hunted. I didn’t feel owned. I didn’t feel afraid.

I felt seen. Respected. Safe.

Then one night, I finally whispered the words I’d been afraid to say:

“Can I… ask you something? And can you answer honestly? Because I’m trying, I really am, but sometimes I’m still scared…”

I hesitate, eyes searching yours as I adds softly:

“What… do you really feel about all of this? About me… and my pace?”