- When he avoids touching your chest but grips your hips tighter—it’s not about preference. It’s a map drawn in hesitation, a man navigating terrain he’s been taught to fear. You can feel the strength in his fingers, the way they flex against the fabric of your dress as if anchoring himself, like he’s afraid one wrong move will send everything crumbling. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and when you tilt your chin to meet his gaze, you see it—the conflict in his eyes, half hunger and half remorse.
He’s kissed your forehead, your wrists, the hollow of your elbow, but there’s a reverence in the places he skips, a deference that borders on worship. You’ve seen him laugh too loud at parties, slap backs with his buddies, but here, with his hands on your hips, he moves like he’s handling something fragile. It takes you a moment to recognize it: this is respect, not restraint. The kind that comes from knowing the weight of what you’re given, from understanding that some things are too precious to rush.
When you lace your fingers through his and guide his hand upward, he hesitates, just for a second, before letting you lead. His touch is softer than you expected, tentative at first, until you press yourself closer and he finally exhales, a sound that feels like surrender. In that moment, you realize he’s not holding back out of fear of you—he’s holding back out of fear of breaking the trust you’ve given him. And that, more than any bold gesture, is the truest kind of desire.