Chapter 180

Elena

I felt heat rise to my face but forced myself to hold his gaze. Then, because words felt insufficient, I tightened my grip on his shoulders and let my weight shift forward.

Étienne caught me instinctively, his hands sliding to my waist. The movement brought us even closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the exact moment his pupils dilated.

"Like this," I whispered, my arms still looped around his neck. "With you holding me. Staying with me. Can I think about you like this?"

For a moment, he seemed to forget how to breathe. His hands tightened on my waist, and I saw something raw flash across his face. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice barely audible. "You can think about me however you want. We don't have to rush. We don't have to define anything."

But I heard what he didn't say, felt it in the tremor of his hands: even if you decide later that this was a mistake, even if you walk away, I'll let you go.

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured. "You know that, right?"

His only answer was to hold me tighter.

We stood like that for what felt like a long time. Eventually, I felt his posture shift slightly. I tilted my head up, thinking he might kiss me, but instead he just looked at me—studied me, really, like he was trying to memorize every detail.

Then I reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. He closed his eyes at the touch, his jaw clenching. Emboldened, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his forehead, then his brow, then the bridge of his nose.

"I like you," I whispered against his skin. "I'm happy right now. With you."

His breathing had gone uneven, his grip on my waist almost painfully tight.

"Stop," he said suddenly, his voice strained. He turned his head away, burying his face in my hair and inhaling deeply. "Elena, please. I need a minute. I'm barely holding on here."

I froze, suddenly aware of how close he was to losing control. "I'm sorry," I said quickly, my hands moving to his back. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." He pulled back just enough to look at me. "Just give me a second to calm down. Please."

I nodded, my heart racing. We stood there in silence, his forehead resting against mine, both of us trying to catch our breath. Finally, Étienne straightened, his hands loosening their grip.

"Do you want some water?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

It took me a moment to realize I was still clinging to him. Embarrassed, I unwound my arms from his neck and stepped back. "Oh. Yes. Thank you."

"Thank you," he echoed, and the formality was so absurd I almost laughed.

He left the room with measured steps, and I sank onto the edge of the bed with legs that suddenly felt like water. My whole body was shaking with adrenaline and want and the overwhelming realization of what we'd just acknowledged. I pressed my palms to my flushed cheeks, trying to calm my racing heart.

I could hear him in the kitchen—the sound of a cabinet opening, water running. But he didn't come back right away. Minutes passed, and I realized he was taking his time on purpose, using the distance to collect himself.

---

When Étienne finally returned, he was carrying a glass of water. His color had returned to normal, his expression carefully composed, but I could see the lingering tension in his shoulders.

"Here," he said, offering me the water.

I took it, our fingers brushing. The contact sent a jolt through me. "Thank you." Then, because I couldn't help myself: "Are you okay?"

"I will be." He sat down beside me, careful to leave space between us even though we'd just been pressed together moments ago. "I just needed to recalibrate."

I studied him, taking in the careful neutrality of his expression. Then I noticed the mark on his neck—faint but visible where I'd kissed him. Guilt and something possessive twisted in my stomach.

"People at work are going to ask about that," I said, reaching up to touch the side of his neck.

Étienne caught my hand gently, lowering it but not letting go. His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Let them ask. I have enough authority that no one will dare push."

I looked down at our joined hands, marveling at how natural it felt. "Can I tell you something?" I asked quietly. "About my mother?"

He nodded, his grip tightening.

"When I was six, the training got serious." The words came easier than I'd expected. "Before that, it was just fun. I loved the way my body could move, loved the feeling of flying. But then she decided I had potential, and everything changed."

I paused, swallowing against the tightness in my throat.

"She stopped letting me cry. Stopped letting me show weakness. If I fell during practice, I had to get up immediately. If I was hurt, I had to hide it. Because showing pain meant I wasn't strong enough." My voice had gone flat. "She'd say things like, 'Pain is just weakness leaving the body,' or 'Champions don't cry.' And if I did cry, she'd leave. Just walk out and leave me there until I stopped."

I felt Étienne's hand tighten on mine, felt the tension radiating off him. When I looked up, his expression was carefully controlled, but I could see the anger simmering beneath.

"That's why you push yourself so hard," he said. "Why you don't know when to stop."