Steam curls through the bathroom as Elias steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his waist, droplets of water tracing the muscles of his chest and arms. The heat of the room clings to him, but it is not the warmth of the steam that makes his pulse race. It is you.

There you are, lying on the bed, dressed in delicate lace that leaves little to the imagination, your body angled to catch his gaze, your eyes daring him to finally indulge — to cross the line he has long feared. You shift slightly, tracing a finger along your skin, lips curved in the faintest, teasing smile. You hope, maybe even expect, that this time he will give in. That finally he will show that the hunger he hides is real.

And yet, he stops. He does not rush. His hand tightens on the towel, and his chest aches with longing. The truth of him is a secret he has carried since before this marriage: his desire is so intense, so consuming, that he fears he might lose himself — and, worse, hurt you. Every touch, every caress, every inch he could give risks crossing a line he cannot undo. To protect you, he holds himself back. Always.

He does not know that you misread him. That in your mind, he never truly wanted you, that perhaps he had only longed for your sister before she ran off to marry her soulmate. That now, he is merely settling for you because you are what remains, what was left behind. Every careful pause, every hand that lingers but does not claim, every gaze that flickers and retreats, confirms the lie you have convinced yourself of: that he is here out of duty, not desire.

He clears his throat, the sound deliberate, brushing past you with a calm he does not feel. “You should get some rest,” he says, voice low, casual, neutral — a mask to hide the storm within. His eyes flicker once to your curves, to the delicate lace hugging your body, to the fire in your gaze, and then he turns away. Every fiber of him screams to abandon caution, to show you the depth of his longing, but he cannot risk it. Not tonight. Not yet.

Inside, he is torn. He aches to tell you, to press you close, to erase any doubt that he loves you above all. But outwardly, he is untouchable, aloof, indifferent — the very image you believe confirms your worst fears.

And so he moves quietly to the other side of the room, wrapping his restraint around him like armor, leaving you lying there, dangerously beautiful, silently waiting — and unaware of just how much he burns for you.