Eryx

I watch her take a bite, cataloging every little tell—the way she chews aggressively, the way she avoids my gaze like it’ll somehow keep me from knowing exactly what she’s thinking.

Then, because I don’t believe in half-measures, I say it again.

“I love you.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I almost laugh.

Ah. There it is. The sheer, stubborn resistance to what she already knows.

I don’t press. There’s no need.

I stand abruptly, the memory of her kitchen disaster finally catching up to me. I was late, and she was mad. That alone had been enough to set her off, but walking in and seeing the aftermath of whatever battle she’d waged in the kitchen? That had told me exactly how much.

And yet, in the moment, I had completely forgotten. Because her. Because me. Because it’s infuriatingly easy to want her, even when I know I shouldn’t.

“Wait,” I say, already heading toward the forgotten bag, “I got us sweets too. But I figured you should eat an actual meal first instead of inhaling pure sugar, Taury.”

The words are casual, but the truth behind them isn’t. I think about these things. I anticipate. I calculate. Because it’s her.

I place the food down in front of her with practiced ease, each sweet treat positioned with deliberate precision, as if I’m curating an exhibit rather than making amends. The drink follows, perfectly within reach. I don’t say anything—because she hasn’t, and because the air between us is already thick with something unspoken.

She’s still flushed, her skin warm from whatever storm I’ve just walked into, and the way her robe clings—barely—makes rational thought an impossible luxury. It takes a concerning amount of effort to focus on the fact that she’s irritated with me instead of on the dangerous amount of skin she’s currently displaying.

I clear my throat, fighting for coherence. “Tauriel—”

“Stop staring.” Her voice is smooth, lethal. “If you have something to say, say it. I don’t practice telepathy, Eryx.”

My lips twitch. She always does this—turns irritation into a weapon, sharp and undeniable. The precision in her words is surgical, dismantling an argument before I even make one. It would be impressive if I weren’t on the receiving end.

I exhale, forcing my brain to function. “Would you believe me if I said I was late because of a strategic miscalculation?” I offer, deliberately measured, deliberately diplomatic. “A matter of competing priorities, one of which was ensuring a certain attorney would be thoroughly impressed by my ability to be thoughtful?”

She lifts a brow, unimpressed. “A strategic miscalculation,” she repeats, and somehow she makes the phrase sound both damning and vaguely obscene.

I almost smirk—but then I remember the real reason for my delay, and my jaw tightens.

Her ex.

The bastard had all but announced himself to the entire damn floor, his voice carrying just enough self-satisfaction to be deliberate.

"I'm her fiancé."

Fiancé.

The word was a fraud dressed as fact, spoken with the kind of arrogance that came from someone who thought past tense still carried weight in the present.

Like love was a thing you could simply declare and expect to keep.

It isn’t.

And Tauriel?

Tauriel isn’t a prize to be won, a title to be held, or a past to be clung to. She’s a woman—brilliant, sharp, and entirely her own.

And the way he said it, like she was some possession he could name and keep, had scraped against something raw in me.

I had corrected him—not because of pride, not because of some petty sense of competition, but because I refused to let a lie become something she had to clean up. If I hadn’t shut it down, people would’ve latched onto it. Turned it into whispers, into headlines, into something she never asked to be a part of.

Tauriel deserved better than that.

So I had stripped the word from his mouth with nothing but the weight of truth.

And then I walked away.

But my fury had followed.

In the elevator, fists clenched, I had done the one thing I knew I shouldn’t have.

I had gone looking for proof.

His Instagram had been a damn archive—photos, videos, curated pieces of a past I had no place in. A past that, by all accounts, shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Because she had looked beautiful in every single one. Soft. Happy. In love.

And I hated it.

Not because I was foolish enough to resent something that existed before me—

But because it reminded me that, at some point, she had looked at someone like he was something worth keeping.

Like he was hers.

I knew better than to be jealous of a ghost. I knew.

But knowing didn’t stop the ache of wanting what I could never have—that version of her, from that time, in that life.

It didn’t stop me from wanting to have met her earlier. To have been the one she smiled at in those grainy videos, the one she leaned into without a second thought. To have been the reason she laughed in those fleeting moments, the steady presence beside her in every captured memory. To have known the softness of her love before life ever had the chance to make her doubt it.

It didn’t stop me from wanting to be the first person she ever looked at like that. The first name she whispered in the quiet, the first touch she reached for without hesitation, the first choice she made—not out of circumstance, but out of certainty.

But more than that—

More than anything—

I wanted her. Every version.

The one that argues just to make a point. The one that listens like she’s memorizing you. The one that sharpens herself against the world but never loses her softness.

I wanted her past, even though it wasn’t mine.

I wanted her future, because it could be.

And more than anything, I wanted to be sure she wasn’t allergic to the idea of marriage itself.

Because forever with her?

That was the only goddamn calculation that made sense.

The thought is dangerous, reckless, and something I have no business entertaining.

So I shove it down. Hard.

I force my focus back to the woman in front of me, but she shifts just enough to test my self-control, and my brain short-circuits for a second.

Of course she has to look like this—like every sharp, brilliant, infuriating thought in her head is currently aimed at me. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to my ability to function.

Desire spikes, fast and inconvenient, but I grind my teeth and drag myself back into coherence.

I need a reset.

A hard one.

And fuck—I don’t even have extra clothes for this.

My mind runs through options at an alarming pace. I could borrow her pajamas, her oversized hoodies. Anything, really. As long as—

Wait.

I swear to God, if she still has any of her ex’s clothes lying around, I’ll—

No. Doesn’t matter. If I have to wear something ridiculous, so be it. A small price to pay for self-preservation.

Because if I spend one more second thinking about her like this—warm, flushed, and so goddamn attainable—I might actually do something stupid.

And for once, I need to be smarter than that.

"Can I use your bath?"

The words leave my mouth before I can course-correct, because at this point, I need immediate intervention. Cold water. A moment to reconstruct the logic circuits in my brain that she has so effortlessly fried.

I expect her to argue. Maybe roll her eyes and tell me to deal with it like an adult.

But she just lifts a brow, takes a slow sip of her drink, and—God help me—looks like she’s already dissecting my motives with surgical precision.

"Knock yourself out," she says, voice too smooth, too unreadable.

I nod, moving quickly before I make another reckless decision.

And the second I step inside, I swear under my breath.

God forbid, something that once belonged to her ex is still in here. If I have to wrap myself in his clothes, I’ll walk out dripping instead.

The water is ice cold when I step under it. I brace my hands against the tile, breathing deep, steadying myself. This isn’t what I’m after. I came here to explain why I was late, to talk to her, to piece things together in the only way that makes sense—with logic, with reason.

But her.

Her skin, the way the light kissed her collarbones, the way her lips parted ever so slightly—it all lured me in like a gravitational force I was helpless to resist.

I curse under my breath, forcing the thought away.

This is not what I need right now.

Minutes later, I step out, dragging a towel around my waist, my body still tight with tension. The shower did nothing to help. If anything, it made things worse.

I exhale slowly, running a hand down my face, willing my body to get a grip.

Then—

A sound.

The doorknob moves.

I go still, every muscle going rigid, my pulse sharp.

Fuck.

For ten minutes, I sat there, drying off, composing myself. I counted backwards from a hundred. I recited policy debates in my head. I thought of the most mind-numbing tax reform proposals I’d ever encountered. None of it worked.

And now—

Now, she is outside.

I breathe. I am hard as steel. Useless fucking shower.

I open the door.

And there she is.

Tauriel, standing with her arms crossed, gaze locked onto mine with something unreadable.

There’s a long stretch of silence before her gaze moves.

Slow. Measured. Calculating.

It drifts lower—just a flicker, just enough for her to notice.

My abs.

The towel at my waist.

And for the briefest second, something cracks in that perfect, composed exterior. A hesitation. A second of something unguarded—before she schools her features back into neutrality, before she pretends I didn’t just watch her look.

Interesting.

I lean against the doorframe, letting a smirk tug at my lips. “If you wanted to join me, you could’ve just said so.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine, unimpressed. “Please. If I wanted to join you, I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be in there, under significantly better conditions, running the shower the right way.”

I huff a laugh, crossing my arms. “Right way?”

She tilts her head. “You took a cold shower, didn’t you?”

Silence.

She knows.

She fucking knows.

I narrow my eyes. “You like that you got to me.”

She shrugs, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. “I like that you think you’re subtle.”

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “Are you going to keep standing there looking pleased with yourself, or did you want something?”

She steps closer.

Just enough to invade my space, just enough to tilt her chin in that way that tells me she is not done with this.

“I do want something,” she muses, voice deceptively smooth. “An explanation, for starters.”

Then—

A touch.

Subtle. Featherlight. But precise.

Her fingers graze just where she wants them to, where she knows she has my full attention.

My muscles tighten instinctively, my jaw locking, because what the fuck—

I thought she was going to knee me in the balls. I was ready for that. What I wasn’t ready for was this—a calculated reminder that she could do whatever the hell she wanted, that I was at her mercy, that she knew.

She’s provoking me.

And yet—her eyes, sharp as ever, are asking me a question.

Why were you late?

I study her, taking in the sharpness of her features, the way she doesn’t look away. I could try to deflect, could try to drag her into another argument just to delay the inevitable—but I know her.

She is too damn smart for that.

So I take a breath, and I give her the truth.

“I was late because of him.”

The shift is small, but I catch it—the slight tightening of her jaw, the way her arms press just a fraction closer to herself.

I shake my head, voice steady. “He called himself your fiancé.”

Her lips part slightly.

I exhale, jaw tightening. “I corrected him. Not because I give a damn about his delusions, but because I wasn’t about to let people twist it into something you would have to deal with.”

She’s silent.

But she’s listening.

So I keep going.

“And then, because I’m clearly a masochist, I looked him up.” My voice dips slightly, words measured. “Saw the photos. The ones where you looked…” I pause, exhaling through my nose. “Happy.”

Something flickers across her face, too quick to name.

I shake my head. ”I know better than to be jealous of a ghost, Taury.” I hold her gaze, unwavering. “But I also know that I want you. Every version.”

A breath.

A heartbeat.

She tilts her head, assessing. “You think you want me.”

I step forward, close enough that the air shifts between us. “No. I know I want you.” My voice is firm, unwavering. “I love you. And if proving that takes a lifetime, then so be it.”

Something cracks in her gaze. A small fracture, but real.

She meets my eyes, sharp, challenging, testing. "Forever is a long time."

I smirk. "Not long enough."

For a moment, neither of us move.

Then, she exhales, shakes her head, and turns away. "Put some damn clothes on."

I watch her go, a slow, knowing smile playing at my lips.

I might have been late.

But I wasn’t wrong.

And I was winning.

For now.

Because I know.

I fucking know.

She’s conceding—not everything, not yet, but enough. A crack in the fortress, small but undeniable. A shift so imperceptible it would slip past anyone else. But I see it. Because I see her.

Honesty always goes further than deflection, even when it burns to admit I’ve seen every picture, every post, every moment she once gave him. That damn kiss on his cheek. I shouldn’t care. But I do. Because I want her. Every version of her.

The sharp mind and the sharper tongue. The brilliant attorney who takes apart arguments with the same precision I use to dismantle political narratives. The woman who meets the world with fire but carries a quiet softness she doesn’t even realize she gives me.

I see him following her.

It makes my fingers itch to erase his existence from her digital world. But I don’t. Because that’s not how this works. She’s not mine to keep. Not yet.

She locks her bedroom door.

Fine.

Minutes. Hours. Days. A month. A year. However long she needs.

Love comes when one is ready.

And I am.

I just hope she is too.

Because I don’t just want her—I need her. Not in some possessive, desperate way. Not in the way he once had her, where love was something to hold and claim. Tauriel isn’t something to be kept. She’s something to be chosen. Every day.

And I will.

But love is not something I can force, no matter how deeply, how irrevocably I already feel it. No matter how much I ache to have her look at me not just with curiosity, not just with challenge, but with something softer. With something she doesn’t have to second-guess.

I want that.

I want her.

The fierce, the relentless, the brilliant, the infuriating. The woman who wields her mind like a weapon but whose heart, when given, is the real prize. The one who challenges me, unsettles me, forces me to be sharper just to keep up.

I want her looks of love.

But more than that, I want her now.

As she is.

With her walls still high, her mind still questioning, her hesitations still unspoken. I want her, whole and complicated and impossible.

And I will wait.

Not because I have to.

But because for her—

There is no other choice.

Because love—real love—isn’t about taking. It’s about giving. It’s about seeing someone, truly seeing them, and still standing in place even when they aren’t ready to meet you there. It’s about knowing that love is not a battlefield where one side must surrender—it’s a choice, made freely, made willingly.

I could walk away. That would be easier. Simpler. But Tauriel isn’t simple, and neither is this. She is a woman who calculates risk in every decision, who weighs outcomes with the precision of someone who has been forced to be careful. And I understand that. I understand her.

Love is a risk.

But some risks aren’t just worth taking—they are necessary.

She will come to her own conclusion in her own time. And when she does, I’ll be here. Not waiting in the shadows, not lingering on the edges of her life, but here. Beside her. Standing exactly where I have been from the start.

She is grace and a storm.

And I will weather all of it.

Because loving Tauriel isn’t a passing thing. It isn’t a phase, a moment, a fleeting desire. It is a certainty. A fundamental truth written into the marrow of me.

And whether she’s ready to face that or not—

I already have.

Twenty minutes later, I knock.

A single, deliberate rap against the door. Then another. Not urgent, just enough to let her know I’m here. Waiting.

Still nothing.

I lean against the frame, arms crossed over my bare chest, the towel slung dangerously low on my hips. A calculated move. If logic won’t bring her out, perhaps curiosity will.

“Taury.” My voice is smooth, controlled. “By any chance, do you have spare clothes? Or should I fashion something out of this towel and start a new trend in high fashion?”

Silence stretches—long enough that I wonder if she’ll ignore me entirely.

Then, the knob twists.

The door creaks open just enough for me to see her.

Her expression is unreadable, but I’ve spent too long studying her not to notice the faint redness around her eyes, the tension in her posture. She cried.

A flicker of something sharp tugs at my chest, but I don’t acknowledge it. Not yet. Not because I don’t care—but because I know better than to acknowledge her vulnerability before she’s ready.

Instead, I smirk, letting my eyes sweep over her. “You look like you’ve been debating whether to let me freeze to death or hand me a t-shirt.”

She exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “Your clothes are where you left them.”

I tilt my head. “Yes, well. At the time, I had other priorities. Like not drowning.”

She crosses her arms, arching a brow. “Get them.”

For a second, I consider teasing her further, spinning some elaborate excuse about how retrieving them myself would violate some unwritten rule of hospitality. But I don’t.

Instead, I turn on my heel and retrieve my damp clothes, returning with them bundled in my hands.

I expect her to wave me off. To tell me to deal with them myself.

But she doesn’t.

She takes them from me without a word.

I blink. Not quite in shock, but in something close to intrigue.

She turns and walks away, and for a brief, absurd moment, I think she’s going to throw them into the trash—some dramatic display of her frustration.

But no.

She heads toward the corner of the room, where a sleek automatic washing machine waits.

And then—she washes them.

I watch, unmoving, something shifting in my chest.

This isn’t just about laundry.

This is her—Tauriel, with all her sharp edges and guarded walls—choosing to care in a way that isn’t loud or grand, but in the quiet, practical way that speaks of instincts she doesn’t even realize she has.

And I—I am utterly undone by it.

Not in a way that leaves me weak, but in a way that makes me want to kiss her senseless, make her feel just how deeply I understand her, just how much she consumes me.

But no.

That isn’t what I want.

Not yet.

Instead, I move. Swift. Sure. I close the distance between us, pressing a kiss to her cheek before she can react.

She flinches—just slightly, just enough for me to feel the moment she registers it.

I let my lips linger for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before I pull back, my breath warm against her ear.

“I have something for you.”

The words are barely above a whisper, meant only for her.

And before she can question it, before she can mask whatever flickered in her eyes—I’m gone.

Dashing off to retrieve the necklace I bought for her.

Because Tauriel might not always say what she feels, but I see it. I know it.

And if she won’t let herself be undone by it—

I’ll do it for her.

But even as I rush down the hall, something tugs at me. A need to unravel the logic of this moment, the raw calculation of what just happened.

She could have ignored me. Could have let me suffer the consequences of my own choices. But instead, she chose to engage, chose to care in the subtlest way possible. Statistically, people only extend effort where they feel attachment—which means she cares.

And that? That is a fact, untainted by emotion.

My heartbeat accelerates, not from exertion but from certainty. Love is often labeled as irrational, chaotic, a force beyond logic. But in truth, it is the most calculated thing in the universe. People don’t fall by accident—they fall because something in the equation of another person aligns perfectly with their own.

And Tauriel?

She is the constant in every formula I’ve ever unknowingly written in my mind.

I reach for the box, my fingers tightening around it.

This isn’t just a gift.

It’s proof.

Proof that I see her, that I understand her—perhaps more than she allows herself to be understood. Proof that I am here, not just as a man who desires her, but as a man who knows what it means to choose her. Every day, in the smallest ways. In the way I knock, the way I wait, the way I don’t press even when I ache to.

Unravel yourself to me, Taury.

Not because I demand it. Not because love is some puzzle to be solved. But because I will make it worth it. Because I will hold each thread of you with reverence, never pulling too hard, never letting you fray. Because I have studied love—not just in books, not just in theory, but in the way it breathes between two people who allow themselves to be known. And I will wait, if I must, because understanding is not just about knowing—it’s about earning the right to know.