December 2018
Boston, MA, USA

Our footsteps crunching on the snow, Ian leads me to a park bench far away from the trodden path. Before I sit down, he brushes off the slush and rests his coat on the top so that my clothes don't get sodden. Even though we are fighting. That's how deeply ingrained his chivalry goes.

Gesturing for me to take a seat, he sits beside me in silence, giving no indication how cold he must feel in a simple suit jacket. We're close. Dangerously close. Like when we were seated on the organ bench.

His eyes flash like lightning. I'm not afraid of his intensity, though I am keenly aware of our proximity. All it would take is one small movement to close the gap between us.

When Ian breaks his stare to glance at my lips, a flurry of butterflies erupts in my stomach.

I clear my throat and back away. "So, about Helena. If you aren't dating, what in the world is it?"

After a deep breath, Ian begins. "We were what a less couth person might call 'friends with benefits.'"

Friends with benefits?

Wait, what?

"We share rent and utilities," he continues. "We cook together. Sit on the sofa and watch movies. We talk. Sometimes we jog together. And yes, twice a week we used to let off some steam. Not anymore."

My jaw drops.

"Since you've come back, I haven't touched her once," he says in a firm tone. "She sleeps in her own room, and we have strict rules. In fact, she's seeing someone as well. But it's more practical for two people to share the costs of rent and utilities. So, we decided to remain roommates until one of us decided to move in with someone else."

Still too speechless to comment.

"We're still each other's plus-ones because I hate attending social events on my own," he says. "So if you find us on social media together, that's why."

"Friends with benefits?" I scoff. "You?"

"Do you think I'm a monk?"

"I always thought you were--I don't know--a 'relationship' kinda guy."

"And what, pray tell, gave you that impression?" he asks, his tone laced with sarcasm. "The zero girlfriends I had in high school?"

"No, the one you had in college," I say with no small hint of sarcasm. "At least I hope I was the only one."

"You mean the one who left after I'd proposed to her?" he says in a partly condescending, partly incredulous tone. "You've taken it upon yourself to criticize me when you left me and married another man?"

"And I got separated!" I insist. "Whereas you're still with her."

"I was never with Helena," he says in a firm tone, "at least not the way you mean it. Please don't project your faith-based values onto me."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I demand. "Don't bring religion into this."

"Of course you were the only woman for me. And you would have remained the only one had you stayed with me instead of running off to Europe."

Well, damn!

"But friends with benefits?" I ask. "Really? I didn't think you could be so superficial."

A muscle jumps in his defined jaw. "That wasn't, in truth, the full extent of our relationship."

"Go on...," I say with a grimace.

He exhales a heavy sigh before resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers before resting his forehead against them. "We are best friends. We've held onto each other through very difficult times. While our lives fell apart, we kept each other sane and helped each other heal."

I balk at the sincerity in his voice as icy cold guilt churns inside me.

"At first, we would meet up for drinks and talk," he says. "Coffee, of course, because you know how I despise drunkenness."

"I remember," I say in a softer tone. His mom. His dad.

Alcohol ruined his life.

"We decided to do the mature thing and settle down," he says. "Not as a couple. Not as partners. Not as boyfriend and girlfriend, which makes us sound like teenagers without a plan. We drew up a contract."

That makes me do a double-take. "A contract?"

"Helena's a lawyer, and I need certainty in my life when it comes to such important decisions." He shrugs. "It isn't legally binding, more like a formal list akin to the strict rules of your faith, but more open. It stipulated no kissing and no sexual congress."

I nod silently, quite aware of how Ian needs to feel he's doing the right thing. At all times. It's one of the few ways he demands to be in control.

Which is why friends with benefits never crossed my mind!

With another wave of guilt, I realize how disastrous this date is going. But I don't care. We need to fix this, and the only way to do that is by talking.

"We scheduled regular date nights, which constituted the so-called 'benefits' if you will," he says in a matter-of-fact tone, "and they ensured we would not make decisions that might impact our futures or our health."

"Wow, how romantic!"

That's when he turns to face me. "Indeed, that's the point! Our agreement was mutually beneficial and had nothing at all to do with romance."

Shaking my head, I rub my temples to alleviate an impending headache.

"Don't think for a moment that if you had come through my door, I wouldn't have broken the contract instantly and chosen you," he insists. "Just like Helena would have done if Rachel had returned."

"Really?" I ask, incredulous.

"You may have fallen in love with another man--" he retorts.

"We're talking about you, not me!"

"Quite right." He cradles his forehead. "Forgive me."

I wave a dismissive hand.

"In any event, it wasn't that easy for me," he says, "Or for Helena. We served as band-aids for one another, not cures. It was always temporary."

"Comforting."

"She told me to go after you," says Ian. "Even after I'd lost all hope."

My heart swells. "She did?"

"We both knew whom each of us truly loved." Never once does he break eye contact. "And it wasn't each other."

That's when the guilt hits me like a brick to the face.

What did I expect? That Ian would remain single and alone forever? It's been over eight years since we broke up!

Besides, I hadn't been alone either even though it felt that way most of the time. But that was my mistake, not his.

"Why?" Astounded, I sound almost breathless. "Why didn't you get married? Or--or have a girlfriend you could love, you know, properly?"

His eyelids close and he turns from me with one deliberate movement. "Do you have to ask?"

"Yes!"

When Ian faces me, his eyes convey a depth of sadness of which I didn't think him capable. And my stomach sinks all the way to my boots.

"Then you never truly understood my feelings for you at all."

My lips part in surprise.

"I couldn't give my heart to anyone else," he says. "Because you've always been there. Even after you left."

He touches his chest. Right above his heart.

"My muse, believe me, waiting for you has been a form of freedom."

My breath hitches. "Freedom from what?"

He doesn't hesitate. "From meaningless attachment."

My gaze darts to his lips, the urge to kiss him almost irrepressible.

"Yes, it isn't sexy for me to admit it," he says with a scoff. "Real men don't share their feelings. Real men move on. Real men screw a hundred women or drown their feelings in alcohol to make themselves forget."

"That's--"

"Well, guess what? I don't give a fuck!" he hisses under his breath, drawing closer to me on the bench. "I am who I am! And I'm not going to--"

Before my brain registers what my heart is doing, I silence him with a kiss.

At first, Ian doesn't react. Whether out of shock or what, I don't know.

So I pull back almost instantly and search his neutral expression, desperate for any clue as to his emotions. Hoping that I haven't kissed him too soon.

Or, even worse, against his will--

For one long moment, we stare at each other. Searching for answers. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Until he cups my cheeks in his hands and kisses me back.

Fiercely. Intensely. Desperately.

Indeed, like a man who hasn't kissed in eight years.

At that moment, I know he's told me the truth.

His lips move against mine, his minty breath steaming up my glasses. Our lips move in sync--probing, testing, feeling, searching--until I can't hold my breath any longer.

After a short gasp, I kiss him again like I can't get enough of him. Cupping his neck, I show him all that I've wanted to express for so long.

After we break apart, Ian rests his forehead against mine, almost panting. He grazes my lips softly once more, his nose tracing mine, as though silently begging for another kiss.

And I give into his silent request.

This time, our touch is tender. Soft. And full of an emotion I can't quite pin down. But it almost makes my heart explode in the best possible way.

"Christ," he breathes as we pull apart. Ian brushes some hair away from my face and gazes at me like I'm a precious work of art. "Can I sit here all day and kiss you?"

I chuckle. "You really haven't kissed anyone for eight years?"

He draws back slightly with a bashful expression. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm slightly out of practice. Sorry about that--mishap--at first. With our teeth clashing."

"Who cares?" What came after that was pure magic. "If that's you out of practice, God help me when you're a pro."

He plants another gentle kiss on my lips. And again. And again. Until he trails a line of kisses to my ear, melting me from the inside out. "You drive me crazy, my muse. Do you know that?"

His deep baritone does things to me that could cast me into the darkest pits of hell. Yes, it's against my faith. Yes, any kind of touch may be ethically questionable until I'm divorced.

But, frankly, I don't give a damn.

Sinking against him, I savor his lips against mine because Ian is the man I love. The man I've always loved. It doesn't feel like adultery because my heart never truly married anyone.

He's right. I couldn't give my heart to Marcus because Europe had already nestled inside my heart. It just took me all this time to realize.

Ian's my true dream.

Where we are doesn't really matter. Because I'm finally healed.

I can let go.

Now that I've made my life in Germany work--now that I've fulfilled my vow--my heart is finally free to show him how I feel. 

Until now, I've been married to Europe. Not to Ian. Not to Marcus.

Now I'm finally free. Inside.

And that matters way more than any paperwork.

"Keep whispering in my ear," I murmur.

"You don't want to know how much I've wanted to kiss you," he says in a husky voice. "So long I've waited. So long..."

"Ian..."

"That's it," he whispers. "Say my name."

Just before I'm about to say his name in the most sultry voice I can manage, my arms slip down his back.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

He's colder than a penguin's fridge. And damp from melted snow.

"Ian!" I say insistently.

"That's not what I meant," he teases me. "Say it like you did before."

"No, I'm serious! You're freezing! You'll catch a cold."

"I didn't even notice," he says in a voice still tender from our touch.

"Good thing I did!"

I leap to my feet and gesture for him to do the same. With a resigned sigh, Ian rises, and I shake out his coat before handing it to him.

Yeah, okay. I admit I killed the mood, but fuck a duck! He shouldn't get pneumonia.

He takes it with a shy smile. "Thank you. I suppose it is rather chilly."

"Rather chilly?" I gesture around me. "It's snowing and below freezing."

After donning his coat, he holds out his hand, and I grasp it. "I'm sorry," I say. "I do regret assuming you were making bad choices. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."

"All's forgiven," he says. "I'm glad you're a woman of principle. It's one of the things I--like--most about you."

I can't help but notice that slight pause before he mentally catches himself. And I reward him with a shy smile because I know what he means, but I'm genuinely glad he's being respectful and letting us both take our time.

After a picturesque walk, followed by a heart-to-heart that goes on for hours over hot chocolate with marshmallows, our day is quickly becoming one of the top ten most romantic days of my life.

Even after the earlier disaster.

I don't even notice that the last train is going to leave in less than half an hour. We both hurry back to the station, and I'm relieved to find that it's running late and won't depart for another five minutes.

Part of me wants to go home with Ian, but I know neither of us is ready for that level of intimacy. It's only the first date. And I don't want to rush and spoil everything.

One could arguably say we already have rushed things too fast. Our first kiss? Already? But the truth is that we've known each other forever. Ian isn't a stranger. I care about him--truly and deeply. So I have no regrets.

Just as I'm about to board the train, he reaches for my hand once more. "May I ask for your number, Sylvia?"

"Oh, gosh! Yes, sorry!" I shake my head with a nervous chuckle. "I totally forgot. Here--"

And I text him what I hope isn't the cheesiest message of all time. Or if it is, he'll forgive me. Because I'm almost delirious with happiness.

I've had the most wonderful time. ❤️ Thank you.

After Ian turns from me, he types a response.

As have I, my muse. Shall we meet again before Christmas?

Yes! Where/when?

South Station/noon. We could grab lunch or a movie? Or both.

Sounds great. 🎉 See you!

Just as I'm about to board, he turns back and waves. And I blow him a final air-kiss to say good-bye. In an uncharacteristic show of emotion, he touches his cheek with a shocked expression as if to say he caught it.

My heart nearly bursts with happiness because I swear he's never done that before. Not even when we were in college.

___

Word count: 2,210
Total word count: 37,180/40,000