Her palm stays flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the thin cotton—fast, uneven, a rhythm that doesn't match the stillness of his body. Another beat, another flutter under her hand, and she counts them. One. Two. Three. His thumb presses once into the hollow of her wrist, not pushing her away, just holding her there. A moth batters against the workshop window, tapping glass in the silence. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches the muscle jump in his jaw and waits for him to find the words he's swallowing.
The moth falls silent, then starts again. A frantic percussion against the dark pane.
His jaw works. Opens. Closes.
"I don't—" His voice catches, scrapes clean. He stops, presses his lips together, and she feels his chest rise and fall under her hand, a full breath he's been holding for years. "I don't know how to want something without wanting all of it. Every part of you. Every morning. Every night. I don't know how to want something and not let it become the only thing I can see."
The moth hits the glass again, harder this time, a tiny desperate sound in the dark.
Her hand stays where it is. She doesn't pull away, doesn't press closer, just lets him feel her holding steady—the weight of her palm, the rhythm of her breathing, the quiet certainty of her presence. His eyes are dark, fixed on something past her shoulder, and she watches him watch the moth, watches the strain in his throat as he swallows whatever he hasn't said yet.
"Then want all of it," she says softly. "I'm not asking you to hold back."
His gaze snaps to hers. The gold flecks catch the lamplight, and she sees something crack behind them—the careful architecture of a man who's spent years building walls against himself, splintering at the edges. His thumb strokes once across her wrist, a slow drag of callused skin against her pulse, and she feels the question in it before he speaks.
"And if I can't stop?" His voice is low, rough, scraped raw. "If I want you in a way that breaks every rule I've made for myself?"
She slides her hand up his chest, over his collarbone, until her fingers curl at the nape of his neck. His breath stutters. His hand tightens on her wrist, not quite holding her in place, not quite letting her go.
"Then break them," she says. "I'm not afraid of you, Adrian. I'm afraid of you shutting down."
The moth stops. Silence settles thick between them, dust motes swimming in the lamplight, the smell of sawdust and oil filling the air, and his hand moves from her wrist to her jaw, cupping it with a tenderness that makes her chest ache. His thumb traces her lower lip once, featherlight, and she feels the tremor in his fingers.
"Stay," he says. Not a question. Not a demand. A confession. "Just—stay."
Her fingers curl deeper into the nape of his neck, and she pulls. Not hard—just enough. Just enough to bring him closer, to close the inch of air between them. His body yields, that broad frame bending to her touch like he's been waiting for permission. The word stay still hangs between them, warm and unsteady, and she answers it with her body.
His forehead meets hers. His breath is rough against her lips, a tremor she feels down to her chest. The hand on her jaw tightens—not much, just enough to anchor himself. She holds him there, her fingers pressed to the short hair at his nape, and lets him feel her solid. Not moving. Not running.
The moth starts again. A soft thump against the glass, two, three. She doesn't look away from him.
He lowers his mouth to hers. Slowly, like he's still deciding whether he's allowed. The first touch is barely a brush—his lower lip against hers, the barest pressure, a question she answers by tilting her chin up and pressing back. Soft. Sure. Yes.
His hand slides from her jaw into her hair, fingers threading through the curls at the base of her skull. The kiss deepens, but not with hunger—with something heavier. A settling. She feels it in the way his shoulders drop, in the breath he lets out through his nose, in the fine tremor running through the hand that's still tangled in her hair.
She keeps her hand at his neck, thumb tracing the tendon there. His pulse jumps under her touch, fast and honest. She presses closer, and he meets her there, mouth open, slow, tasting the dust and sawdust that's settled into her skin.
The kiss breaks just enough for her to breathe. She doesn't pull away—stays close enough to feel his lips move when he speaks.
"I don't—" He stops. Swallows. His thumb traces the shell of her ear, a featherlight stroke that makes her shiver. "I don't know how to do this without it taking everything."
She holds his gaze. The gold flecks are almost lost in the dark of his pupils. "Then let it take everything." Her voice is steady, quiet. "I'm still here."
He makes a sound—low, broken, a noise that seems to cost him something. His forehead drops to hers again, and he stays there, breathing her in. The moth settles against the glass. The workshop holds its breath around them, dust suspended in the lamplight, and she keeps her hand at his neck, a small anchor in the quiet dark.