The Patience of Mountains

The rain whispered against the windows for hours, a steady rhythm that matched the quiet thrum of Lou's heartbeat beneath Syra's ear. She lay curled against him on the couch, her body fitted to his side with the careful precision of two puzzle pieces learning their edges. His arm around her shoulders was neither possessive nor tentative—simply present, a warm weight that grounded her when her thoughts threatened to spiral.

The television played some old black-and-white film, the volume turned low enough that the dialogue blurred into white noise. Neither of them watched it. Lou's fingers traced idle patterns along her arm—never venturing below her elbow, never testing the unspoken boundaries she'd set. The restraint in his touch was so absolute it made her throat tighten.

She could feel the tension in his body - the way his muscles corded with unspent desire, the careful control in every breath. His thigh pressed against hers was warm and solid, but he kept perfectly still, giving her space even as his every instinct must have been screaming to pull her closer.

The scent of him surrounded her - sandalwood and something uniquely masculine that made her want to bury her face in his neck and breathe him in. But she didn't move, afraid that any shift might break this fragile peace between them.

She should have felt safe. 0Instead, guilt coiled in her stomach like a living thing, its venomous fangs sinking deeper with every tender brush of his fingers. The contrast between them was almost cruel - where Lou was all controlled strength and quiet confidence, she was fractured edges and flinching shadows.

Lou deserved more than this.

More than a woman who still woke gasping from nightmares of hands that took without asking. More than a lover who froze when kisses grew too deep, whose body locked up at the barest suggestion of intimacy. At thirty-three, he should have had someone whole—someone who could love him without flinching, without this constant, clawing fear that she would never be enough.

Not a broken twenty-four-year-old who still saw monsters in every shadow.

"You're thinking too loudly," Lou murmured, his breath warm against her temple. The vibration of his voice rumbled through her where their bodies touched.

Syra tilted her head to look at him. The flickering blue light from the television painted his sharp features in monochrome—the proud slope of his nose, the scar above his brow that she'd never asked about, the stubborn set of his jaw that softened only for her.

Beautiful. Patient.

Too patient.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words scraping raw against her throat.

Lou went very still. Beneath her palm, she felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat stutter. "For what?"

"For this." She gestured weakly between them, her hand trembling slightly. "For all the things I can't give you. You shouldn't have to—"

"Don't."

The word wasn't harsh, but it was final. A door closing on an argument he refused to have. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers before relaxing again, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of her wrist.

Syra swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric of his sweater. She focused on the texture beneath her fingertips - the fine wool, the warmth of his body beneath, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Lou shifted to face her fully, his large hands cradling her face with unbearable gentleness. His thumbs brushed the high arches of her cheekbones, wiping away tears she hadn't realized had fallen. The calluses on his fingers caught slightly against her skin - reminders of his work, his strength, the life he'd lived before her.

"Listen to me," he said, each word measured and deliberate. His dark eyes held hers, unwavering in their intensity. "You are not a burden. Your past is not a debt you owe me." He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, his breath warm against her lips. "Whatever you can give—whenever you're ready to give it—that's enough."

The sincerity in his voice cracked something open in her chest, letting in a sliver of light where before there had only been darkness.

Then—

"Marry me."

Syra froze, her breath catching painfully in her lungs.

Lou wasn't smiling. Wasn't kneeling. Just sat there looking at her with those fathomless dark eyes, his thumbs still tracing the delicate bones of her face. The quiet certainty in his gaze was more devastating than any grand gesture could have been.

"Not now," he continued, his voice rough with restraint. "Not until you're ready. But someday. When you wake up and realize you want this as much as I do." His mouth curved, just slightly—a barely-there smile that made her stomach flip. "Because you will."

Syra's breath came in short, sharp bursts. Should have felt scared or disgusted.

Instead, something warm and fragile unfurled in her chest—tiny but undeniably alive.

She pressed her forehead to his, her fingers clutching at his sweater like a lifeline. "You're impossible," she whispered, her voice breaking around the words.

Lou's arms came around her, pulling her close until every inch of her was pressed against him. She could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where her palm rested against his neck, the hard planes of his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"I know," he murmured into her hair, his lips brushing the crown of her head in a kiss so light she might have imagined it.

Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle. Somewhere in the city below, traffic hummed and lights flickered and life moved relentlessly forward.

But here, in this quiet space between heartbeats, they remained. Learning the shape of love at their own pace.

---

Later, when the television had long since shut off and the rain had faded to memory, Syra stirred in Lou's arms.

Moonlight spilled through the windows, painting silver trails across Lou's sleeping face. In sleep, he looked younger—the usual tension in his jaw relaxed, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breathing was deep and even, one arm still curled protectively around her waist.

Syra traced the curve of his bottom lip with her fingertip, her heart aching with something too vast to name. The stubble along his jaw was rough against her skin, a contrast to the softness of his mouth.

He wanted her. Not just her body, but her—the messy, broken pieces and all. The realization didn't terrify her.

Instead,Syra felt something dangerously close to hope.

She pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.

And waited. For the day when her fear would finally be smaller than her love.