POV Owen
I don’t decide to pull away from Noelle.
That’s the part that unsettles me most. There’s no moment of resolve, no internal line crossed where I tell myself to retreat. It happens the way instincts do—quietly, efficiently, without asking whether they’re welcome.
I become careful with my words. I answer questions without elaboration. I listen without offering myself in return.
She notices. Of course she does.
It’s evening when it becomes undeniable. My daughter is asleep, the apartment hushed into that fragile calm that only exists when nothing has gone wrong yet. Noelle sits beside me on the couch, legs tucked under her, fingers absently tracing the seam of my sleeve.
“You’ve been somewhere else all day,” she says.
“I’ve been here,” I answer. “We’ve spent this everything together.:
She turns to look at me fully. “You do know that it is not what I meant.”
I keep my eyes on the darkened window. “You don’t have to mean everything.”
Her fingers still. “Whaaat? That’s new.”
“So are you interrogating me every time I go quiet,” I reply, sharper than intended.
She doesn’t rise to it. That’s the problem. She rarely does.
“I’m not interrogating,” she says evenly. “I’m asking because I can feel the distance.”
“There is no distance,” I say. “Stop blaming me for that and use the same words again and again! Any arguments from you to prove that? I try!”
She studies my face. “Then why does it feel like you’re holding something back?”
Because if I don’t, I won’t know where to stop. I don’t say that. Instead, I lean forward and kiss her—slow, deliberate, effectively ending the conversation. Her body responds immediately, instinctively, but I feel the hesitation before she lets herself melt into it.
“This isn’t an answer,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“It’s what I have for now,” I reply. Otherwise, I’ll blow up.
I guide her toward the bedroom without another word. My hands are firm, certain, my movements controlled. I know exactly how to touch her, how to draw a reaction without inviting questions.
She lets me. That should comfort me, but it doesn’t.
In bed, I take control the way I always have. My grip is confident, my pace unhurried, my presence undeniable. I pin her wrists—not hard, but with authority. She inhales sharply, eyes darkening.
“Owen,” she whispers.
I lean down, my mouth near her ear. “Stay with me.”
“I am,” she replies. “I just—”
I silence her with a kiss, deeper this time, deliberate, cutting off the question before it can take shape. My mouth claims hers with intent rather than urgency, my hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers firm where her hair meets skin.
I hold her there, not forcing, but unmistakably directing. My body moves with practiced precision. I guide her down without breaking contact, my weight settling over her in a way that leaves no doubt about where the balance of control lies.
There is no fumbling. I know exactly where to place my hands, how much pressure to use, how to make her feel held without letting her take hold of me in return.
I don’t let myself get lost. I don’t let myself soften.
My touch is confident, sliding along familiar lines as if I’m reminding both of us that I still know her body intimately. My palm presses to her thigh, thumb tracing upward just enough to make her breath stutter. When she shifts beneath me, I still her with a subtle tightening of my grip.
“Stay,” I murmur, low and controlled.
She obeys—not immediately—and that pause sends a dark, electric satisfaction through me. Her body arches anyway, betraying her, breath uneven now. Her hands come up to my shoulders, fingers gripping fabric, then skin, like she’s anchoring herself against the intensity.
I give her intensity freely. I just don’t give her myself.
I watch her reactions closely—the way her lashes flutter, the way her mouth parts when I shift my weight, the way her hips respond even when she’s trying not to. I anticipate each reaction before it happens, staying half a step ahead, never surprised.
She responds—of course she does.Her body curves toward mine, back lifting, a soft sound leaving her throat before she can stop it. I feel it vibrate against my chest, feel how easily I can draw that response from her.
I lean down, my mouth brushing her ear. “Look at me.”
She does. “You feel different,” she says quietly.
I pause just long enough to acknowledge the truth of it. “I’m here.” I resume moving, deeper this time, more deliberate. “You’re reading too much into it.”
Her breath stutters. “I’m feeling it.”
I lower my forehead to hers, keeping my voice steady. “Let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” she replies softly. “I need you.”
Something tightens in my chest. “This is me.”
She searches my face, eyes intent even through the haze of sensation. “It’s part of you.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how without opening doors I’ve been closing on instinct.
I finish what I started with the same control I began with. When it’s over, I pull her into my chest, my arm firm around her waist. Protective and containing.
She rests there quietly for a moment, then shifts slightly, enough to create space without fully pulling away.
“You didn’t look at me,” she says.
I frown. “I did.”
“Not the way you used to.”
I close my eyes. “Please stop. You’re imagining things.”
“No,” she says. “I’m noticing.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I keep my arm around her, but it feels like a barrier now instead of an embrace.
“I miss you,” she says quietly.
The words hit harder than the accusation would have. “What do you want from me?” I ask.
She turns her head to look at me. “I want you to stop guarding yourself from me. You’re touching me like you’re afraid of what happens if you don’t stay in control.”
I don’t deny it. I just… can’t. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say finally.
Her expression softens, but there’s sadness there now. “You’re not hurting me,” she replies. “You’re just… not letting me reach you.”
I tighten my hold reflexively, pulling her closer. “I don’t know how to do that without risking things.”
“Which things?” she asks.
I don’t answer. She rests her head against my chest, listening to my heartbeat like she’s measuring something. I stare at the ceiling, aware of the distance even in closeness.
I replay the way she watched me. The way she felt the absence even while my hands were on her. I think about how easy it would be to stop guarding myself—and how dangerous that feels now.
With Noelle, vulnerability has consequences. It asks things of me I’m not sure I can give without unraveling.
I turn onto my side, facing away from her, careful not to wake her. The movement feels instinctive, protective in a way that’s starting to look like retreat.
I’m not pulling away because I don’t love her. I’m pulling away because something inside me is waking up again—something that doesn’t know how to exist without control.
Until I understand which part of me is winning, distance feels safer than honesty. Even if she can already feel it.