Loving you is so lovely
Aubrey's Pov
I sat beside a wall of glass that held all of New York within it—restless, radiant, breathing beneath the night like something untamed. The city glittered endlessly, lights spilling into one another, alive in a way that felt almost defiant.
She was coming.
I knew she was on they way.
Still, my gaze lingered on the entrance longer than necessary—out of habit, not doubt.
This place was exactly as promised. Excessive in the quietest, most deliberate way. Gold lived in every detail. Chandeliers hung like suspended constellations, their light melting into polished marble and crystal. Candles flickered across the room, soft and careful, as if afraid to disrupt the illusion of perfection.
A slow melody drifted through the air, rich and unhurried, curling around conversations spoken in low voices. Laughter was muted here. Even joy knew its place.
Everything was curated.
Controlled.
Predictable.
Except her.
My fingers traced the rim of the glass before me, untouched, the chill of it grounding in a way I didn't need but allowed anyway. I leaned back slightly, watching the city instead, though my attention was split—half anchored in the skyline, half waiting for the shift in the room that would announce her presence.
Because it would.
It always did.
Emma didn't arrive quietly.
Not in the way people thought of noise—but in the way a room adjusted around her, as though something essential had finally been restored. Conversations would falter, glances would turn, the air itself would seem to pause just enough to make space.
And I—
I would notice.
I always did.
A faint smile threatened at the corner of my lips, gone almost as quickly as it came.
She was late.
Not enough to matter.
Just enough to be… her.
And somehow, in a place where everything ran on precision and perfection, that was the only thing that felt real.
So I waited.
Not impatiently.
Not uncertainly.
But with a quiet, unspoken certainty—
that the moment those doors opened,
This carefully crafted world of gold and glass would shift,
And everything in it would feel just a little more alive.
After she rejected me, Michael told me—quietly, like it was something delicate, something that might shatter if spoken too loudly—that I should make her want me more. That I should become distant. Less yielding. That I should learn how to hold myself back when it came to her.
"Don't melt so easily," he said.
And I agreed.
I remember the way the words left me—steady, composed, almost convincing. As though I could carve discipline into something that had never known it. As though I could stand in front of her and remain untouched.
But even then, I knew.
I have never been untouched by her.
Not once.
Not even in her absence.
Because the moment she steps into a room, something shifts—subtle, unspoken, undeniable. The air alters. Time bends just enough for me to feel it. For me to know, without needing to look, that she is there.
And when I do look—
God.
It is over.
Every practiced distance, every quiet promise of restraint, every fragile illusion of control I try to build around myself—it all dissolves beneath the weight of her presence.
What am I supposed to do?
Turn away when her eyes find mine, soft and unaware of the devastation they carry? Pretend I am not already hers when she says my name like it belongs to her tongue, like it was always meant to live there?
I have tried.
I have failed.
Because loving her is not something I do.
It is something that happens to me.
Something that exists in me, unbidden, unrelenting, woven into the very fabric of who I am.
One word from her—
And I would die for her.
Not in the careless way people speak of love, like it is light, like it is easy. I mean it in the way my entire being tightens at the thought of her in pain, the way the world narrows to a single, fragile point where only she exists. I would give my life the way one gives in to gravity—inevitable, unquestioned—if it meant she could remain untouched by harm.
One word from her—
And I would kill for her.
And there is something terrifying in how easily that truth settles within me. How natural it feels. There would be no hesitation. No pause to consider consequence or redemption. Only her. Only the quiet, consuming need to protect what was never truly mine to begin with.
And if the universe itself stood in her way—
if fate dared to deny her—
I would unmake it.
I would tear apart the sky if it refused to shine for her. I would gather the stars in my hands and lay them at her feet, just to see them reflected in her eyes. I would bend time, rewrite destiny, dismantle every law that ever dared to place distance between us.
For her.
Always for her.
One word from her,
and I would fall.
Not out of weakness—
But devotion so vast, so consuming, it leaves no room for anything else.
I would kneel before her, not because she asked it of me, but because loving her has always felt like something sacred. Something inevitable. Something that was never meant to be resisted.
Just to love her.
Just to remain there—
in the quiet ruin of it,
knowing that even in my undoing,
I was still, irrevocably,
hers.
Again—who was I kidding?
Today was supposed to be different.
I had a plan. A precise, almost laughable attempt at control. I would be distant. Composed. I would let her arrive in my world and feel the absence of me for once. Let her search. Let her wonder. Let her—
yearn.
The irony is almost cruel.
Because from the very beginning of the day, it was never her who was left wanting.
It was me.
I was there when she stepped into the boutique, sunlight catching in the soft fall of her hair, turning something ordinary into something almost… sacred. I shouldn't have lingered. I shouldn't have watched. And yet I did—hidden in plain sight, memorizing the way her fingers brushed fabrics she didn't even need, the way she tilted her head as if the world existed only to be quietly admired by her.
I was there when the musicians played for her.
And she stood there, listening, unaware that somewhere behind the distance, I was watching her like a man starved of something he could never name.
I was there when she stepped into the carriage.
The door closed, and for a moment, I almost followed.
Almost.
But restraint—fragile, fleeting—held me back just long enough to remember where I was meant to be.
Here.
Waiting.
I wasn't there when she dressed for me.
And somehow, that absence feels louder than all the moments I witnessed.
Because I can imagine it too well.
And the thought that she did it knowing she would see me…
It does something to me I cannot quite explain.
Something dangerous.
I had to leave before I lost what little control I had left, before the day unraveled completely beneath the weight of her existence in it. So I came here, to this place of gold and glass and quiet luxury, convincing myself that distance would finally give me the upper hand.
That tonight—
I would be the one she reached for.
But even now, sitting here, waiting for her to walk through those doors, I can feel it.
That same pull.
That same quiet undoing.
Michael would've looked at me and shaken his head. Maybe laughed. Maybe dragged me back into something resembling dignity.
Or maybe he would've slapped me across the face for being this… gone.
Because I am.
God, I am.
I never thought I would fold like this.
Not for anyone.
Not this easily.
Not this completely.
And yet—
For her,
it wasn't even a fall.
It was a surrender.
The kind that happens slowly, silently, until one day you look at yourself and realize there is nothing left to hold onto.
Nothing left to protect.
Only her.
Only the quiet, aching certainty—
that before she has even arrived,
I am already hers.
And then—
She walked in.
And God help me—
She looked ethereal.
The doors opened, and it was as if the night itself paused to let her pass. Light followed her in, soft and golden, settling against her like it knew she was meant to be seen in it. The room did not fall silent—not truly—but something shifted. Conversations blurred into the background, the music softened into something distant, and all that remained, all that mattered, was her.
My eyes didn't leave her.
They couldn't.
She moved with a quiet grace that felt almost unreal, each step measured yet effortless, like she belonged to something far more delicate than this world of marble and glass. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, strands escaping just enough to frame her face, catching the light in a way that made her look… untouchable. Like something you admired from a distance, knowing you had no right to reach for it.
And yet—
She had come here.
For me.
The necklace I had chosen rested against her collarbone, the fine chain glinting faintly with every breath she took. My gaze lingered there longer than it should have, something tightening in my chest at the realization that she had worn it.
That she had let something of mine rest against her skin.
The gloves—elegant, delicate—covered her hands, adding to that same quiet refinement she carried so effortlessly. And the dress—
God.
The dress.
It fell over her like it had been crafted with only her in mind, flowing in a way that was both modest and devastating all at once. It revealed nothing, and yet it left nothing unseen. There was a softness to it, a restraint that only made her beauty feel deeper, more consuming.
No one else could have worn it like that.
No one else could have made something so simple feel like a work of art.
I hadn't known what she would like.
That uncertainty had stayed with me longer than I cared to admit. Because she was not someone you could predict. Not someone you could easily understand. And I refused to risk getting it wrong with her.
So I remembered.
The night of my play.
The way she had looked then—quiet, elegant, unforgettable in a way that lingered long after the final note faded. And I chose something that carried the same feeling. The same softness.
Hoping she would step into it again.
And she did.
She surpassed it.
My jaw clenched slowly, the shift in my expression almost imperceptible.
Because they were looking at her.
Other men.
Their eyes followed her in ways that were far too familiar, far too lingering. Taking her in. Admiring her. Wanting—without knowing a single thing about her, without understanding the depth of what they were seeing.
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
Possessive.
Instinctive.
Unforgiving.
Emma—
My Emma—
was breathtaking.
But she was not theirs to look at.
Not theirs to admire.
Not theirs to claim even for a second in their thoughts.
She was—
Mine.
The realization didn't arrive gently. It struck, settled, and rooted itself deep within me as it had always been there, waiting for me to stop denying it.
Ah, fuck.
I stood before I could stop myself.
Not hurried.
Not uncertain.
But deliberate.
Each step I took toward her carried a quiet certainty, something unspoken yet unmistakable. The kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself, because it was already understood.
She was not alone.
She was here for me.
I reached her as she spoke to a waitress, her voice soft, composed—asking about a reservation, as though this place hadn't already begun to revolve around her the moment she entered.
I stopped beside her.
Close.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, something soft and warm that lingered just at the edge of my senses. Close enough to feel the pull of her presence in a way that made it difficult to remember why I had ever thought I could remain distant.
"Emma," I said, her name leaving me quieter than I intended, yet heavier somehow—like it carried everything I hadn't said.
She turned.
And when her eyes met mine—
the city outside, the gold-lit room, the people, the music—
All of it disappeared.
There was only her.
And the quiet, devastating certainty that I had already lost this battle long before she ever walked through that door.