Page 40 of Hollowed

Not because he didn’t want to. I could feel it in the air between us—the way his body tensed when I breathed too deeply, the way his gaze lingered on my lips like they were the only place he wanted to put his hunger. He watched me like a man drowning watches the surface. But still, he didn’t reach.

I stayed kneeling long after the words left my mouth.

I didn’t want to move.

The silence was no longer unbearable.

It was heavy. Sacred. Full of him.

I could feel his restraint coiling through the stillness like a second vow. One he made without sound. One I wasn’t sure he knew he was making.

He stood.

I stayed.

He walked away. Not far. Just to the altar.

He placed both palms against it like it had spoken to him. Like it asked something of him. His shoulders were tight beneath the frayed linen of his robe, his breath shallow. The marks on his back peeked out from the loose collar. Rigid scars. Raised scripture. Each one a sentence carved into skin.

I wanted to trace them.

I wanted to kneel behind him and press my mouth to every one.

Instead, I waited.

He turned after a long stretch of silence. His eyes found me immediately.

He didn’t ask me to rise.

But his hand reached out. Just a little.

I stood. Walked to him. Slowly. Every step echoing like confession.

He didn’t touch me.

He took my hand and placed it on his chest.

Bare skin. Warm. Beating.

Not fast.

But not calm.

His heart spoke in stutters. In sentences I didn’t know how to translate.

“Do you feel it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s not fear,” he said.

“I know.”

“It’s not control.”

“Then what?”

His hand covered mine.

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