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I stop breathing. Though my skin was overheated before, it somehow grows hotter, uncomfortable—no,unbearable.
I throw myself off him, thinking to flee. To hide. Becausethis is horrible, and I misread everything. And how could I be so foolish?
“Whoa. Hold on!”
He catches me before I reach the door.
“Let me go,” I ask feebly.
“Ziva, please, hear me out first. Then I’ll go if that’s what you want. These are your rooms, after all.”
“Fine, but I’m not looking at you.”
If it were possible to hear his lips turn up into a smile, I’m sure I would have.
“That’s fair,” he says, and—as if he can’t help it—he pulls me against him, lest I get any other ideas about escaping.
“I want this, Ziva,” he says. “I want this withyou. But not yet.”
He said he loved that word. Right now I hate it. His words are so baffling; I can’t help but step back to look at him.
“Not yet?” I ask. “I don’t understand. I took the precautions. We won’t— I mean, there’s little chance of preg—”
He puts a finger to my lips. “You were prepared for this.”
“I… hoped for it,” I admit.
His eyes are open, wondering. Loving. It’s the only reason I’m still able to look at him.
He swallows. “I made a promise to my ma. The first and only girl I would ever take to bed would be my wife.”
I feel my brows drawing together in confusion. “You promised to wait for marriage? Why?”
He laughs at my tone.
“It’s what I want,” he says. “I don’t want this act to be meaningless. I don’t ever want it to be a temporary thing. I want it to be with my forever.”
“Oh.”
The heat is replaced with ice. I grow unbearably cold, newanxieties taking root. He sees me only as a temporary thing. He’s not as invested in this as I am. I’ve been too hasty. Too ridiculous. I—
“Ziva,” he interrupts. “I want my forever to be you. I don’twantanyone else.” He says the words quickly, as though he can read my thoughts. “But marriage is a big commitment. And with a war upcoming, how could we possibly discuss any huge life changes? And I didn’t want to scare you away if I started talking about forever too soon. I worry all the time that I’ll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing to send you running. That you’ll become too scared to be with me. That you’ll prefer a life spent alone.”
His words tumble out of him like a cascading waterfall. But I catch his meaning.
The ice inside me melts.
“You want me?” I clarify.
“Yes,” he says.
“Just not yet?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
As though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, his whole frame sags in relief. He draws me to him again.
