He steps into the room and I close the door behind him, suddenly hyperaware of the small space, the bed that dominates the center of the room, the way his presence seems to fill every corner with electricity I've been imagining for months.
"You look…." He stops, searching for words. "Different. Older."
"I am older. Seventeen now, in case you forgot." I turn to face him fully, letting him see the woman I've become through our correspondence. "And you look exactly like I remembered. Like someone who understands things other people can't."
He's studying my face with the same intensity he once brought to analyzing my father's corruption, and I can see him processing the changes—not just physical, but something deeper. The confidence that comes from months of honest conversation, the sense of self that's developed through being truly seen by another person.
"Delilah." My name sounds different in his voice now, heavier with implications that didn't exist when I was sixteen and traumatized. "What are we doing here?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities that make my pulse spike. Because he knows what we're doing here, just like I do. We're crossing lines that can't be uncrossed, exploring connections that society would never approve of, acting on attraction that's been building through seven months of the most honest relationship either of us has ever had.
"I think you know," I say, taking a step closer. "I think you've known since I suggested this meeting. Since I told you I needed to see you in person."
His jaw tightens, and I watch him wage some internal battle between what he wants and what he thinks is appropriate. "You're seventeen years old."
"So?"
"So you're still in high school. Still living with your aunt, still figuring out who you're going to become." His voice carries the careful control of someone trying to convince himself as much as me. "I'm twenty-four. I've done things, seen things that—"
"That I helped you with," I interrupt. "That I understood when no one else could. That I've been thinking about and writing about and analyzing for months because you're the only person who's ever seen me clearly."
I take another step closer, close enough that I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. "The age difference doesn't matter when we understand each other the way we do."
"It matters legally. It matters ethically. It matters because you deserve—"
"Don't tell me what I deserve." The words come out sharper than I intended, carrying months of frustration with people who think they know what's best for me. "Everyone always tells me what I deserve. Safety, healing, normal teenage experiences. But none of them understand what I actually want."
"And what do you want?"
The question is quiet, dangerous, asked by someone who already knows the answer but needs to hear me say it.
"You," I say simply. "I want the person who writes me letters about justice and necessity and the weight of carrying truth that others can't handle. I want the man who saw me clearly on the worst night of my life and didn't try to save me from what I understood. I want themanwho is under my skin…inside of me."
I can feel my cheeks heat with my own words. I don’t take them back.
Kent closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, there's something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Delilah, you don't understand what you're asking for."
"I understand perfectly." I reach out and touch his hand, noting how his fingers immediately curl around mine. "I understand that what we have is the most honest relationship either of us has ever had. I understand that you see me as an equal instead of a victim. And I understand that I've been thinking about this moment every night for months."
His hand tightens around mine, but his voice remains carefully controlled. "You're seventeen. There's too much age difference between us. This isn't—we can't—"
But even as he says it, I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, the tension in his shoulders that suggests he's fighting the same pull I've been feeling through every letter we've exchanged.
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down, letting the silence stretch until it's thick with unspoken want, heavy like the air before a thunderstorm. My heart pounds in my chest, a steady drumbeat that echoes in my ears, but I keep my expression cool, challenging, my green eyes locked on his dark ones. I can see the storm brewing there—desire warring with duty, hunger clashing against restraint.
"You know, for someone who writes so eloquently about necessary violence and breaking rules for justice, you're awfully hung up on this one," I say, my voice soft but edged with mockery, a deliberate taunt to poke at his carefully constructed walls.
I take a small step forward, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, warming the silk of my dress, but not touching—not yet. The faint scent of his cologne mixes with the clean smell of his skin, intoxicating, making my pulse quicken.
"What is it, Kent? Afraid of a little girl like me? Or afraid you'll like it too much? Afraid that once you start, you won't be able to stop, that I'll unravel every bit of that control you pride yourself on?"
His jaw clenches visibly, the muscle ticking under his stubbled skin, and I see his hands ball into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening as his nails dig into his palms. His broadshoulders are rigid, tense like coiled springs, and his chest rises and falls with shallow, controlled breaths.
"Delilah, stop. This isn't right. You're seventeen—" His voice is rough, strained, like each word is being dragged from him against his will.
"Eighteen in six months," I interrupt smoothly, rolling my eyes with exaggerated dismissiveness, though inside I'm thrilled at how he's clinging to that detail like a lifeline. "But that's not the point, is it? The point is you've been seeing me as an adult in every letter we've exchanged. Treating me like someone who gets it, who understands your world—the shadows, the moral gray areas, the thrill of it all. And now, face to face, you're chickening out?"
I let my fingers brush lightly against his arm, just a feather-touch along the sleeve of his sweater, feeling the hard muscle tense and quiver under my fingertips.
