Page 70 of His To Unravel
The past week of obstinately staying away feels more like self-inflicted punishment than self-preservation. And the way his eyes lit up when he extended the invitation made it impossible to say no.
Now, I’m here, wrapped in one of his oversized sweaters, the soft knit brushing against my skin and carrying his scent—something clean, dark, and addictive. The fabric pools at my thighs as I curl my legs beneath me on the plush couch in his living room.
Much like him, his space is sleek, refined, and just a little too perfect. But somehow, when I’m here, it feels like it could be mine too. The thought both comforts and concerns me.
Nathaniel stands by the TV, scrolling through movie options. “What about this one?” he asks, turning to me with a playful glint in his eye.
“Pride and Prejudice?” I arch a brow at him, trying to suppress a smile. “I didn’t peg you as the type, Nathaniel. Is this some move to impress girls?”
He chuckles, the sound low and rich. “That depends. Is it working?”
“Maybe,” I tease, leaning back against the cushions, letting the banter distract me from the sudden heat rising in my chest.
His smile softens, his teasing giving way to a conspiratorial tone. “Just between you and me, it’s actually one of my comfort movies.”
I blink at him. “Comfort movies?”
He nods, his expression open, almost boyish. “My mother loves the book. She read it to me growing up, made me sit through the various adaptations over the years. It…reminds me of those simpler times.” He pauses, a flicker of something raw passing over his face before he turns back to the screen. “So, what do you think? Shall we?”
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard, and for a moment, I can only stare at him. This is a side of Nathaniel I haven’t seen before—a softer, quieter part of him that feels like I’ve been granted access to something precious.
“Sure,” I say finally, my voice gentler now.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes my heart skip.
As he dims the lights and settles onto the couch beside me, I assess the array of snacks spread out on the coffee table:chips, chocolates, popcorn, even a cup of hot chocolate, the steam curling up invitingly.
I raise a brow, glancing at him in mock suspicion. “Do you always have this many snacks lying around, or should I be flattered by the effort?”
Nathaniel grins, entirely unbothered by the question. “If there’s even a minuscule chance I get to spend time with you, Olivia, I’ll go out of my way to make sure it’s perfect.”
My chest constricts again, this time with something dangerously close to hope.
“You’re too much,” I murmur, but the words have no bite.
“I try,” he replies smoothly, handing me the cup of hot chocolate. His fingers brush mine—just a whisper of contact, but it sparks all the same.
As the movie plays, my thoughts keep drifting to the man sitting so close to me that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His arm stretches along the back of the couch, just shy of touching my shoulder, and the small space between us feels charged, like the universe itself is holding its breath.
I try to focus on the screen, but my gaze keeps flicking to Nathaniel—to the line of his jaw, the way the light from the TV softens the sharpness of his profile. He seems so at ease, yet I know him well enough now to sense the undercurrent of intensity in his stillness.
The room smells faintly of cinnamon and cedar, a combination so comforting it makes my chest ache with the desire to lean into him, to lose myself in his warmth.
My mind wanders to his confession earlier about his mother… Private pieces of him he so freely gives.
I think about the way he so effortlessly makes me feel like I belong in a world I’ve always thought was out of reach.
The pull of him—steady, insistent, impossible to deny.
I’ve spent so long fighting my feelings, guarding myself againstthe fear that this is too good to last. But here, now, with him…it doesn’t feel like a battle worth fighting.
As Elizabeth Bennet comes alive on screen—sharp, wary, stubborn—I see pieces of myself in her. Not the boldness, maybe. But the fear. The desperate need to protect something fragile inside myself.
And Darcy—steady, unshakable, terrifying in how much he feels— I think of Nathaniel, and the parallels sting more than they soothe.
By the time the rain-drenched confession scene plays, the air between us is thick, electric.
Darcy’s voice, low and raw, fills the space, carrying words that feel almost too familiar. His declaration, fraught with misunderstanding and passion, strikes a chord deep inside me.
