His POV

She’s pacing again.

Barefoot, restless, wrapped in one of my button-downs that swallows her frame. She always steals them like they mean nothing—but she only ever takes mine. Never the ones still crisp. Always the ones that smell like me. The ones shaped by my body.

She won’t admit that. Not out loud.

Her hair’s a mess, tied up like an afterthought. She pretends not to care, but I’ve seen her redo it three times when she thinks I’m not looking.

She always cares. About appearances. About silence. About me. Just not enough to say it.

“You think you know everything,” she snaps, arms crossed. “You think just because you’re calm, you’ve got the upper hand.”

I don’t answer. I just watch her.

Because that’s what drives her crazy. Not my words. My restraint.

She thrives on resistance. Needs friction to feel control. If I yelled back, she’d know she matters. She doesn’t want peace—she wants proof that I’m just as wrecked.

But I won’t give her that. I never do.

I just sit there. On the edge of the bed. Hands clasped. Elbows on my knees. Still. Waiting. Like I always do. For her.

She storms closer. Bare feet brushing hardwood. Stops in front of me—but keeps that inch of distance. That final thread of control.

“You’re so…” Her jaw tightens. “So infuriating.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

And that’s how I know. She’s not angry. She’s tired.

Tired of holding herself together. Tired of pretending she doesn’t already belong to me.

Her walls are glass—shattered at the corners, but see-through if you know how to look. And I do.

She’s been screaming for safety in a language only I understand.

“Say something,” she whispers. A dare. A plea.

I inhale. Hold her gaze.

“I could,” I say softly. “But I think you already know.”

Her breath stills.

“Then why are you just sitting there?” she asks, even though she knows.

“Because I told you,” I answer. “I won’t touch you until you ask me to.”

She freezes. A blink. A flicker. But it’s enough.

She knows I could’ve taken her a hundred times. When she was half-dressed. When she cried in my car. When she slept inches from my hands.

But I didn’t. And I won’t. Not until she crosses that line.

“You think I’ll break first?” she asks, but it’s softer now.

“No.” I shake my head. “I think you’ll choose me. And that’s better.”

Silence settles. Heavy. Humming. The kind that lives under skin.

She shifts forward. Barely an inch. But I feel it. The pull. The gravity.

Still, I don’t move.

Because this is the moment she’ll remember— That I could have moved. But I didn’t.

I waited. Not because I had to— Because she deserves to choose.

And when she does?

It’ll mean everything.

She can run again. Slam doors. Call me cold.

But she won’t mean it.

Because she knows the truth.

I’m the safest thing she’s ever known. Not because I hold her tight— But because I let her go, even when it kills me.

And when she comes back—and she will—I won’t let her leave again.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll be the last man she ever wants. Because I’m the only one who never tried to own her— Only waited to be chosen.

So I sit here. In the stillness. While she stands at the edge of surrender.

Not because I’m weak. But because love isn’t about who touches first. It’s about who stays when it hurts.

And when she finally says the words— when she finally whispers now—

I won’t be gentle.

Not because she’s fragile.

But because she’s mine. And she asked for this.

And I don’t take that lightly.