Patience

ZANDER

"How to remove makeup," I mutter, typing into my phone's search bar. A flood of tutorials and step-by-step guides appears, each more detailed than the last. I sigh, scrolling past one that insists I need about ten different products to do it right. This is not my area of expertise.

Just minutes ago, I fought what felt like an army of demons trying to help Ivan out of his clothes. Every time my hands brushed against his skin, I swore my self-control teetered on the brink of collapse. His outfit was gorgeous, sure, but not exactly the kind of thing you'd want to sleep in.

Now, standing in front of the bathroom counter, I scan the rows of unfamiliar bottles and jars. It's a battlefield in here too. Finally, my eyes land on one labeled Micellar Water. Sounds fancy, but the tutorial said it works. Good enough for me.

I grab a cotton pad, pour some of the mysterious water onto it, and head back to Ivan. As I gently swipe the pad over his face, his peaceful expression doesn't falter, and I feel an odd sense of satisfaction. This simple, quiet act feels more intimate than I expected.

Ivan stirs slightly under my touch, his face soft in the glow of the bedside lamp. My hand falters for a moment, the cotton pad hovering just above his cheek. His lips part as he exhales slowly, and I can't help but stare, mesmerized by how peaceful he looks. 

I gently swipe the pad along his jawline, the tension in my chest growing with every soft stroke. His skin is so smooth, so warm beneath my fingertips. The scent of the micellar water mingles with the faint trace of his natural scent—a mix of something earthy and sweet that always makes my pulse race.

"Ivan," I whisper again, my voice almost reverent. He doesn't wake, but a soft sound escapes him, and I freeze. My hand lingers on his face, my thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. The moment feels impossibly fragile, as though the world might shatter if I move too suddenly.

The air between us thickens, charged with unspoken words and unfulfilled longing. My heart pounds in my chest, a steady drumbeat of desire and restraint. I want to lean down, to feel the softness of his lips against mine, but I hold back. This isn't the time.

Instead, I let my fingers trail gently down his temple, tracing the lines of his face as if committing them to memory. "You drive me insane, you know that?" I murmur softly, my lips curving into a faint smile. "But you're worth every second of it."

His lashes flutter slightly, and for a heartbeat, I think he might wake. But then he settles again, his breathing deep and steady. I let out a shaky breath, my resolve tested but unbroken.

My eyes linger on his lips, now slightly swollen, soft and inviting in a way that makes my throat tighten. My pulse quickens, and I clench my fists to ground myself. I shouldn't be thinking like this, not while he's asleep, completely vulnerable.

But damn it, it's impossible not to notice how perfect he looks, how utterly tempting. My gaze flickers back to his lips again, and my resolve wavers.

With a sharp inhale, I force myself to stand, putting distance between us before I lose control. The space feels like a lifeline, but it doesn't ease the tension coiled in my chest. I rake a hand through my hair, pacing the room in an attempt to shake the heat burning under my skin.

"Get it together," I mutter under my breath, casting another glance his way. Even from here, he draws me in, like a force I can't resist.

The thought of how close we came tonight—of what could have happened—both excites and frustrates me. But I'll wait. 

I glance at the bed again, at Ivan's peaceful, sleeping form, and immediately look away. There's no way I'm sleeping next to him. Not with how my body is reacting, not with how my mind is spinning out of control just watching him breathe.

No, I don't trust myself enough for that.

With a frustrated sigh, I grab my phone off the bedside table and start scrolling through emails, forcing my focus onto work. It's better this way—less dangerous, less tempting. But even as I try to lose myself in the stream of messages, my eyes keep drifting back to him, my resolve threatening to crumble all over again.

"Focus," I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. But the sight of him—golden hair messy against the pillow, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm—pulls at me like a magnet.

Standing abruptly, I decide I need another layer of separation. First step: pants. Wrapping just a towel around my waist? Yeah, not helping.