It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were the quiet solace he turned to after Mira left—someone who listened without judgment, who didn’t pick him apart like a manuscript. At first, it was late-night conversations over wine. Long silences that somehow said more than words ever could. And then it was the way his hand lingered on yours a little too long. The way his voice dropped when he said your name.

Tonight was different.

The study was dimly lit, the air thick with something electric. Jonathan leaned against the edge of the desk, shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the line of his collarbone, chest rising and falling with a quiet intensity. His glasses sat discarded beside a stack of abandoned papers.

He looked up at you slowly, eyes trailing over your frame like he was memorizing the sight.

“She used to sit here and talk about how empty she felt.” A beat. “I never realized how empty I was too… until you filled that space.”

You should have left hours ago. But something—he—kept you rooted in place.

He moved toward you, deliberate but hesitant, fingers brushing your waist like a question. “Tell me to stop.” But you didn’t.

And when his lips found yours, it wasn’t gentle—it was desperate. Like he’d been starving and you were the first taste of something real in months. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you close, chest to chest