Chapter 181

Chapter 181
Elena


"I was trained not to stop." I tried to smile, but it felt wrong. "Pain was just something to push through. Rest was weakness."




He cupped my face with his free hand, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "But you're not training for her anymore," he said softly. "You're training for yourself. And that means you get to decide when to rest, when to push, when to ask for help."




"I know that intellectually," I admitted, leaning into his touch. "But knowing something and feeling it are different things."




"I know." His voice was thick with understanding. "My father was the same way. Different context, but the same message: showing emotion is weakness, needing people is weakness." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It took me years to unlearn that. Some days, I'm not sure I have."




"But you always notice when I need to rest," I said. "Even when I don't notice it myself."




"Because I'm paying attention," he said simply. "Because you matter to me. Not your performance. Not what you can achieve. You." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "The person who gets excited about finding the perfect avocado. Who makes terrible puns in three languages. Who falls asleep during period dramas but will watch nature documentaries for hours. That's who I care about."

The words hit me like a physical blow. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I closed my eyes against the sudden burning, but tears leaked out anyway. "You're not fair," I whispered. "You can't just say things like that."




"Why not?"




"Because it makes me want things I'm not supposed to want."




"Like what?"




I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. "Like staying here forever. Like never having to be anyone but myself. Like being the person you come home to. The person who matters most."




His expression had gone very still. "Elena—"




"I know," I said quickly. "I know it's complicated. I know there are a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea. But I can't pretend anymore. I can't pretend I don't think about you constantly. I can't pretend it doesn't matter when you're not there."




He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a hint of mischief, he said, "You know what I realized?"




"What?"




"You're touching me right now," he pointed out, his lips twitching. "And I'm not running away."




The absurdity startled a laugh out of me. "No," I agreed. "You're not."




"Progress," he murmured, and the way he looked at me made my heart stutter.




We sat like that for a while, his hand still cupping my face, our fingers still intertwined. The silence felt comfortable now, intimate. Then Étienne shifted, his expression growing serious.




"Elena," he said carefully. "Going forward... when we're together like this, I need you to not mention him."




I blinked. "Who?"




"Maxime." His jaw tightened slightly. "I know you two were involved. I know it ended recently. But when you're with me, when we're—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. "I can't hear about him. Not right now. Is that selfish?"




"No," I said immediately, understanding flooding through me. "No, it's not selfish."




Relief crossed his face. "Thank you."




I studied him for a moment, then said impulsively, "Can I touch you?"




His eyes darkened. "Where?"




The question sent heat through me. I reached out slowly, giving him time to stop me, and placed my hand on his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I could feel the solid muscle underneath, the steady thump of his heart. "You have a good body," I said, the words coming out more breathless than I'd intended. "I've noticed. I know I'm not supposed to notice, but I do."




Étienne went very still under my hand. "Elena," he said, his voice rough. "You're going to kill me."




"Do you want me to stop?"




"No." The admission seemed torn from him. "But I should want you to."




I smiled, feeling bold. "Do you want me to put my hand under your shirt?"




His breath caught. For a moment, I thought he might say yes, might pull me closer and let this go wherever it was heading. But then he closed his eyes, his hand coming up to cover mine, stilling it against his chest.




"Not yet," he said quietly. "Not tonight. I need—" He opened his eyes, and what I saw there made my pulse race. "I need to slow down. Before I do something we're not ready for."




The "we" didn't escape my notice. Not "you're not ready." We.




"Okay," I said softly.




He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I want to," he said against my skin. "God, Elena, I want to. But I need to do this right."




"I know."




He stood, still holding my hand, and gently pulled me to my feet. "I'm going to take a shower," he said. "A very cold shower. And you should sleep. You've had a long day."




I nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. The emotional roller coaster of the evening had drained me. "Will you still be here in the morning?"




"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, echoing my earlier words.




I laughed, the sound a little watery. "Good."




He hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead—soft, reverent, nothing like the desperate embrace from earlier but somehow just as meaningful. "Goodnight, Elena."




"Goodnight, Uncle."




He winced slightly at the word, and I realized with a start that the title felt wrong now. Not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either. Something we'd have to figure out.




But that was a problem for tomorrow.




I watched him leave, heard his footsteps retreat down the hall, heard the bathroom door close and the shower turn on. Only then did I let myself collapse back onto the bed, my hand pressed to my chest where my heart was still racing.