She nodded, and his hands moved to the laces of her gown—slow, careful, trembling. As if asking her again, silently, for permission.
She kissed him.
That was his answer.
When her dress slid from her shoulders and pooled at her waist, his eyes darkened—but he didn't move to touch her yet. He just looked.
As though seeing her was the most sacred thing he'd ever done.
"You're so beautiful it hurts," he said, voice thick. "And I don't know how I ever became a man who could hurt you."
His words settled over her like silk, both soothing and unbearable. Olivia's throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. She simply looked at him—at the man whose hands shook as he touched her like she was something sacred, something he feared might vanish again.
"You didn't know me then," she whispered, brushing her fingers along his cheek. "And I didn't know this version of you either. Maybe… that's why we never had a chance."
