Avery's POV
The morning after the wedding, sunlight poured softly through the curtains, casting the room in a warm golden glow. It should have felt peaceful, triumphant, full of the joy that comes after a celebration, but for me, the quiet made the room feel almost unbearable.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my fingers lightly tracing the folds of the dress I had changed out of the night before. My body still carried the echoes of last night—the subtle soreness, the tender spots where his hands had touched me, and the faint, lingering marks of his lips on my skin. Each ache reminded me of the intensity of what had passed, yet also the distance he had kept, the restraint he had exercised, and the cold composure that still clung to him.
I glanced toward the bedside table. The capsules and the glass of milk remained where he had left them, simple but cryptic instructions attached: "Eat me." and "Drink me." My fingers hovered over them, trembling slightly. Part of me wanted to follow the instructions immediately, to taste and obey, to feel a little closer to him in his absence. Another part of me resisted. I wanted him here. I wanted to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his presence without the veil of notes or instructions.
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside. Every second felt stretched, as though time had slowed in his absence. My mind replayed yesterday over and over—the ceremony, his measured movements at the altar, the way his eyes scanned me, calm, controlled, almost unreadable. I remembered the way he had touched my hand, just enough to reassure, and yet not enough to give away what I craved most: his warmth, his attention, his complete focus on me.
I thought about last night, the wedding night, when he had returned to the room. He had been slightly unsteady, a faint scent of alcohol lingering on his skin. His eyes had locked on mine, and the tension between us had been almost unbearable. We hadn't spoken. There was no laughter, no teasing, only the quiet intensity that always accompanied him. My body had responded instinctively, and despite my nerves, I had let him come closer. The rest had been passionate, controlled, and brief. I woke this morning sore in places, my skin marked, my chest tight, but my heart heavier from his absence.
Hours passed slowly. I busied myself with small, mundane tasks—tidying the room, rearranging flowers from the reception, unpacking a few wedding gifts—but every task felt meaningless without him. I caught myself glancing toward the door repeatedly, heart tightening with each imagined creak or shadow, hoping it would be him. But the room remained still.
Axel's POV
I had returned to the chaos of the city almost immediately after the wedding night. Responsibilities waited, business calls demanded attention, and matters of the family could not be delayed. I knew Avery would wait. She always did. And yet, knowing that did little to ease the tightness in my chest.
When I finally opened the door that evening, her eyes were wide, watching me silently. She had changed into a simple nightdress, hair slightly mussed, cheeks still faintly flushed from sleep or lingering emotion—I couldn't tell. My chest tightened at the sight of her, delicate and entirely mine, yet still untouchable in some invisible way.
I set my bag down carefully, stepping closer to her without a word. She didn't flinch; she didn't move. Her gaze followed me, full of anticipation and unsaid questions. I could feel her pulse against my own awareness, rapid, nervous, and alive.
I broke the silence finally, my voice low, measured: "In the future… don't wait for me."
Her brows furrowed, lips parting, searching for words she didn't speak. I gave a small nod, then left the room quietly, leaving her alone again, the air thick with tension and longing. The words were not cruel—they were a warning, a boundary—but even so, I could feel the pull between us stretching taut, unspoken and unresolved.
Avery's POV
I remained on the bed long after he left. My hands trembled slightly as I held the capsules, turning them over in my fingers. Part of me wanted to follow the instructions, to obey the small, cryptic commands he had left me. But the more pressing need was to see him, to speak to him, to understand him in ways I couldn't yet.
The room was filled with shadows as the day wore on. The sunlight faded gradually, painting the walls in dusky gold and amber. I moved to the balcony, wrapping myself in a soft blanket, trying to feel some small measure of comfort in the evening air. The city below was alive, lights flickering on one by one, people moving in oblivion to the tension building in my chest.
I thought of him constantly. Where was he? Why had he left so abruptly? And yet, even in his absence, I could feel him—the weight of his presence lingering in the quiet corners of the room, in the marks on my skin, in the memory of his touch and gaze.
Evening Approaches
The room grew cooler as night fell. I sank onto the edge of the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. My fingers traced the note again: "Eat me." I set the capsules down, letting them sit as a reminder of him, his control, his distant affection. Next to it, the glass of milk seemed to mock me with its simplicity. "Drink me," it said.
I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts wander. I thought of his hands, his lips, the way he had held me, the quiet storm in his gaze that had made me ache for more even as he kept his distance. The tension of yesterday and last night pressed against me, a mix of longing, confusion, and undeniable attraction.
For the first time, I realized that this waiting—the silence, the uncertainty, the tension—was as much a part of our life together as any joy or laughter could be. And perhaps, in its own way, it was preparing me for what was to come, for the intensity of a man who would not give his heart easily, yet had claimed mine with quiet determination.
I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. My chest was tight. My body still sore. My mind a whirlwind of memory, anticipation, and questions. And deep down, I knew this was only the beginning. The beginning of a life that would test patience, emotions, and the very limits of love itself.