Chapter 25 — The Weight of Wanting
The night was restless.
Kiera lay awake long after the city had settled into its late-hour rhythm, the distant sirens and humming traffic blurring into white noise. Sleep hovered just out of reach, not because of nightmares this time—but because of awareness.
Kade.
The way he'd looked at her earlier. The careful distance. The choice in his eyes.
It terrified her more than cruelty ever had.
Because this—this was something she could lose.
She turned onto her side, hugging the pillow to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Her body still remembered pain too well, but it also remembered warmth. Safety. The solid weight of someone staying.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Her heart jumped.
"Kiera?" Kade's voice came through the door, low and hesitant. "Are you awake?"
She swallowed. "Yes."
The door opened slowly. He didn't step in right away, as if waiting for permission even after she'd given it.
"I couldn't sleep," he admitted. "I thought… maybe we could talk. If that's okay."
"It is," she said.
He entered, stopping a few steps from the bed. The lamp cast gentle shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines she'd come to associate with control and restraint.
"I keep thinking I'll do or say the wrong thing," he confessed. "That I'll push too hard or pull away again."
She sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. "You're trying. That matters."
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've spent most of my life managing damage. Companies. People. Crises. But this—" He gestured between them. "—this isn't something I can control."
"No," she said quietly. "It isn't."
That should have scared him.
Instead, his shoulders eased.
"I don't want to be the man who hides behind distance anymore," he said. "But I also don't want to rush you into something you're not ready for."
She considered him—the sincerity, the patience, the effort it took for someone like Kade Nightwell to stand in a room and admit uncertainty.
"I don't know what ready looks like," she said honestly. "Some days I feel strong. Other days I feel like a bruise that never healed right."
He stepped closer—but stopped again, eyes asking permission.
She nodded.
He sat on the edge of the bed, far enough to give her space, close enough that she could feel his warmth.
"I want you," he said softly. "But not at the cost of your peace."
The words sent a tremor through her chest.
"I want you too," she admitted. "That's the part that scares me."
"Why?"
"Because wanting means hoping," she said. "And hope… hasn't always been kind to me."
Kade looked at her then—not with pity, not with desire—but with something steadier.
"I won't promise I'll never hurt you," he said. "Because that would be a lie. But I can promise I'll never choose to."
Her eyes burned.
No one had ever said that to her before.
Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and rested her fingers against his wrist. She felt his pulse jump beneath her touch.
He didn't move.
Didn't rush.
Didn't pull away.
The moment stretched, delicate and electric.
"Can we just… sit?" she asked.
He nodded. "As long as you want."
So they did.
Side by side. Not touching beyond that one point of contact. Learning the rhythm of each other's breathing. Letting the silence become something safe instead of threatening.
Eventually, her head tipped against his shoulder.
He stiffened—then relaxed, adjusting just enough to support her weight.
She exhaled.
"This feels nice," she murmured.
"It does," he agreed.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
At some point, he spoke again. "Vivienne texted."
Her body tensed automatically.
"I didn't reply," he added quickly. "I blocked her number."
Kiera lifted her head to look at him. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," he said. "Because blocking her felt like choosing myself. And choosing… us."
Her lips parted slightly, emotion thick in her throat.
"You don't owe me that," she said.
"I know," he replied. "I want to give it anyway."
Carefully, slowly, he lifted his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. He paused, waiting.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't freeze.
She leaned into the touch.
Something fragile but powerful passed between them.
Not hunger.
Not possession.
Trust.
He let his hand fall back to his side, breathing unevenly. "Goodnight, Kiera."
"Goodnight, Kade."
He stood and left without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
She lay back against the pillows, heart racing—not from fear this time, but from something dangerously close to happiness.
Across the hall, Kade stood in the darkness of his own room, staring at the ceiling.
He'd wanted to kiss her.
God, he'd wanted to.
But restraint had never felt so much like strength.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't chasing distraction or control or obligation.
He was choosing patience.
Choosing presence.
Choosing her.
And that choice—quiet, deliberate, terrifying—felt like the beginning of something that could change everything.
Not because it erased the past.
But because it respected it.
And tomorrow, he would keep choosing again.