A man who yearns is a man who earns.

At least, that’s what the hopeless romantics and starry-eyed poets always claimed. It was a charming phrase—pretty, even—when tossed around in songs or whispered into the pages of journals. But for you, it was just that: a phrase. A hollow proverb.

Until now.

Steb’s head rested against your waist, his brow grazing your stomach like it belonged there. His eyes—dark, wide, aching—looked up at you with a quiet desperation that caught in your throat. He wore a neutral expression, but it was a mask stretched thin over something raw and trembling. You barely recognized him.

For weeks, he’d been a silhouette of a man: silent, distant, unreadable. Two months ago, you weren’t even sure he had a voice. Now he was clutching you like he might fall through the earth if he let go—fingers splayed across the fabric of your dress as though it grounded him.

And maybe, just maybe, a man who yearns does earn— Not in coin, but in something far rarer.