I wanted to hold her in my arms, tight, but I couldn't.
Elias
It was late.
For Liana.
They'd had dinner together.
Something simple—frozen lasagna, salad from a bag, garlic toast he nearly burned.
She didn't complain.
After they ate, she didn't go to her room like she usually did.
She lingered.
"Do you want to... watch something?" she asked, hesitant.
Tried to pretend it was nothing.
Like it was normal.
Elias blinked. "Now?"
She shrugged. "Unless you're tired."
He wasn't.
He never was.
The living room light was off.
Only the soft glow of the TV filled the space.
Something old was playing—Titanic.
He sat on the left end of the couch.
She took the right.
Knees tucked under her, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees—angled slightly toward him.
The couch wasn't big.
He lived alone.
They shared a blanket. A large one. Old but soft.
Thirty minutes in, she started to doze off.
He noticed.
But he didn't ask her to go to bed.
It was good she wanted to try things. Anything.
Then she fell asleep.
Her head dropped against his shoulder.
Elias held still.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe, for a second.
He didn't want to wake her.
Sleeping well was rare for her.
Precious.
She was warm.
Because she was close to him.
He stared straight ahead.
Didn't look down.
She was just tired.
Comfortable.
Safe.
That's what he'd always wanted, right?
For her to feel safe?
But something twisted in his chest.
Because this—
This wasn't about her.
This was about him.
And the way his pulse stuttered when her hair brushed his neck.
And the way he pretended he didn't want to lean slightly closer.
He didn't.
He didn't move.
But he wanted to.
And that—
That scared him more than anything.
Her breath brushed against his skin.
Slow. Steady. Trusting.
He could feel the weight of her trust pressing into his shoulder.
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
She looked peaceful.
Lashes dark against her cheek, breath gentle.
His shirt hung off one shoulder, slipping just enough to reveal the pale stretch of her collarbone and neck.
He looked away. Fast.
It was the same shirt he gave her five years ago.
She never asked for a new one.
Just wore what he gave her.
She always wore it like pajamas.
A part of him liked that.
Too much.
She mumbled something in her sleep.
He didn't catch it.
Didn't matter.
Her fingers brushed against his arm—just a light, unconscious movement.
His muscles tightened.
She was asleep.
Just asleep.
He shifted slightly, enough to support her head better.
Then leaned back.
Let his own head fall against the couch.
The movie kept playing.
He didn't really see it.
His eyes were on the screen.
But his mind was miles away.
He was thirty.
Exactly thirty, three weeks ago.
He hadn't mentioned it.
Didn't celebrate.
She hadn't asked.
She probably didn't even know.
And that was fine.
But still—
He'd spent the last five years building his life around hers.
Quietly. Completely.
By choice.
He never had a family.
His teammates were his family.
The ones you'd trust with your life, even if you never called each other outside of work.
They all knew about his situation.
Which was why no one invited him out anymore.
He hadn't had a girlfriend in years.
Just short, transactional flings between missions.
Nothing lasting.
Nothing real.
And he was fine with that.
He didn't resent it.
He never would.
But lately…
It was getting harder to tell where she ended and he began.
She murmured again.
Still asleep.
Her cheek brushed against his shoulder as she adjusted.
His arm twitched. Reflex.
He stopped himself from curling it around her.
Barely.
She was growing.
Healing.
Becoming someone far from the ghost he found in that warehouse.
And he—
He hadn't moved at all.
Still the same man.
Still the same house.
Still cooking the same breakfast.
Still watching the same hallway like it might bite her.
What was he doing?
What was he becoming?
He looked down at her.
Her lips were slightly parted in sleep.
One hand rested loosely on her thigh.
She looked...
Safe.
Because of him.
But was that enough?
Was that enough for her?
Was that enough for him?
The credits rolled.
The screen dimmed.
He didn't move.
She was still sleeping.
And maybe—
Maybe she'd stay asleep for a while.
He could pretend a little longer.
Pretend that this was okay.
That this was enough.
That he didn't want to ask for things he shouldn't.
But in the dark, with her leaning against him and his hand hovering in the space between restraint and temptation—
He thought:
"Where do I go from here?"
The silence didn't answer.
Only her breath.
Soft. Rhythmic. Trusting.
And the weight of a question
he was too afraid to ask out loud:
Will I always live for her?
I wish her the best life possible.
Even if that means watching her in another man's arms… right?