It became an almost physical agony for him.
He would sometimes wake up sore from the force of his restraint, the control he had to keep on himself to stop his hands from holding her closer, to keep from pressing his lips to her neck, to breath in the smell of her skin. It should be enough that she came to him every night, her footsteps muffled on the wooden floor, her hand light on his arm as she drew his gaze, reading the hope in her eyes. Like he could ever say no to her.
He always felt a sense of self loathing as he followed her to her room, desperately summoning up all the reasons he shouldn't be feeling a thrill of excitement as she slid down his side, her hands tugging up the blankets as she tucked her head into his shoulder, his arm warm around her, fingers itching to move those few inches further down to where her skin would meet his touch. But there were reasons, so many reason. He was too old for her, he was scarred, married, fictional. All of these and more, running frantic circles around in his mind as he lay with her, waiting for her to slowly drift off to sleep, hoping to whatever gods that ruled this world that she couldn't feel the affect she had on his body as she sighed softly against him, her arm wrapping around his waist, her leg worming it's way between his, pulling herself flush against him, her breath hot and damp against his neck.
But the most painful reason was simply that she didn't love him. Desire, attraction, whatever it was that hazily darkened her eyes sometimes when she looked at him, was one thing, but he would never play with her broken heart, would never take advantage of her naivety. Certain concepts were the same in whatever world you're in, and the notion that in times of grief and desolation one would naturally attach themselves to the nearest source of comfort, seeking approval and whatever kind word or touch they could hope to receive was a simple and effectual truth. Entertaining the thought that she might actually have developed an emotional attachment to him was something that made him growl low in self recrimination.
He already felt a keen stab of depravity for looking at her as anything other than the daughter of a man who had grown to become his friend. For missing out on those years of her life where she had grown from a girl into a woman, so he could have seen her gradual transition, the soft and slow development of a girl who would always remain a girl in his eyes, instead of the sudden gut clenching realisation that she was beautiful, that she was a woman, so real and separate from that little girl that he wondered exactly when it had happened, knowing that had he been around to see it, he wouldn't find himself staring at the ceiling night after night, waiting for sleep and hoping he didn't dream.
Because then it would have made it so much easier to be in her life, to support her and comfort her, to be there when she would mutter random thoughts that made no sense other than the obvious feeling that she needed to speak.
But then he would start to wonder whether he would be there at all. Whether he would have stayed if he hadn't felt he needed to see her everyday in order to breath. And he would have missed all those wonderful moments when for just a second he could lie to himself, and pretend that this was his world, that he belonged here, that she loved him. When she had beamed with pride when she brought home her first published article, the gentle pleasure of the way they moved around the kitchen as they cooked together, when she had quietly and sombrely asked him to read to her, dropping a pillow into his lap and resting her head on him as he had haltingly spoken the words upon the page, none of them making any sense as his mind burnt the image of her smiling sleepily, peacefully dozing in his lap.
He would have missed that one glorious night, the heavy summer air warm and stuffy long after the sun had set, and she had convinced him to perform, something hidden in her stare as he had stripped himself of his shirt, the light of the fire dancing on his skin and in her eyes. And afterwards, wine and music. Her fingers flipping through her father's old record collection, every song, every tune eliciting a faint smile as the arrangement of melody and voice brought forth some hidden memory, and she had held out her hand to him, pulling him to his feet so that they could stand close, her head resting on his shoulder as they danced in slow circles, his hand covering hers where it lay over his heart.
Surely it had just been chance that she had chosen that record, there was no way it had been intentional, or perhaps she had forgotten the words, she certainly wouldn't have known that in his mind it was like someone had pulled out every bittersweet emotion and poured them out in song. And if she felt his heart beating out its frantic and hurried rhythm against her palm, she didn't say, instead turning her face so that when she breathed, soft and sweet in the candlelight, it fluttered against his neck. And should anyone have looked in and seen them, his cheek resting against her hair, their arms entwined, eyes closed, they would have had a hard time convincing anyone that it was more than it seemed.
And the night closed in around them, and the song continued to play.
'Take my hand…..'
'…..take my whole life too'
Maybe it's corny, but listen to it with your eyes closed, it just aches 'love'
Elvis Presley: I can't help falling in love with you.