In some ways, it feels like a return to their relationship of employer-employee all those months ago. There's an unspoken something between them and neither one will address it.
He hadn't realized how much he had come to rely on expressing himself through touch or how often he had held himself back before Adelaide. Now, with her stiff smiles and awkward silences, it feels as if he has been robbed of something precious.
The morning after his I love you hangs in the air, words not returned, he tries to kiss her good morning, tries to put things right. She turns her head and his lips catch her cheek instead. He looks stricken and she shakes her head, sadly at him. "I'm not there yet, Lucien."
He understands, of course. He's a bloody fool and he should be grateful she's still in the house at all, still wearing his ring. But the rejection stings and he tries not to overthink it, tries to honor her request.
So he keeps his hands to himself. No more casual shoulder rubs or a gentle squeeze of their hands. He steers clear of her when at all possible, locking himself inside his mother's study and allowing her to have the house to herself. He even misses the taste of her, misses the way she sighed into his mouth and clutched at his neck when he sucked at her bottom lip.
It goes on like this for days and Lucien thinks he'll go mad if he can't touch her again, wonders if this is punishment she has in store for him. Jean's touch warmed him from head to toe and without it, it feels as if he is adrift and alone without her to guide him.
On the fifth day, she knocks at his study (and he wonders when or if they'll ever return to the days in which she barged in as if she owned every corner of this home). His greeting is tentative and he works extra hard to not reach for her, to keep his hands curled into the fabric of his trousers.
Jean perches herself on the desk in front of him and he thinks it's all a test. She wants to see if he can follow instruction this time, if he can control himself. The grip on his trousers tightens and he wills himself to not move towards her.
Jean folds her hands in front of her and he wonders if she is struggling with their lack of physicality. He watches, enraptured, as she licks her lips and speaks. "You hurt me, Lucien."
His apology is immediate, spilling from his lips, "Jean, I know. I'm so sorr–"
But she holds her hand up, silencing him. "I didn't come here for apologies. I need you to understand something." She waits for him to nod and continues. "You broke a promise to me. We agreed to work together and you decided you knew best. And because of your actions, everyone is facing consequences. I want to be your partner. That's what you asked of me all those years ago and it's what you asked of me when you got down on that ruddy knee of yours."
Lucien hangs his head, every accusation hitting their mark. And then she hooks her finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up to meet her eyes. He tries not to whimper at the contact, tries not to grasp her hand to his face and nuzzle into it.
His eyes meet hers and he's an open book for her: desperation, apologies, sorrow, love, fear. She smooths her hand over his brow and traces the bridge of his nose. He can't help it, he needs to touch her. Eyes fluttering close, determined to savor this touch (unsure when the next will be), he uncurls his hands and rests them on her thighs, fingers dancing along the edge of her skirt.
She leans forward and kisses his cheek, her breath is warm when it hits his face. "I also know you were trying to protect me. I know you've been panicking a bit and I know you are who you are. I told you that last week and I'll tell you again. I'm mad and hurt, Lucien, but I am never, ever going to leave you. I promise you."
It's too much for him. He chokes back a sob, old fears and insecurities tumbling to the surface. He tilts his head and brushes her lips with his, offering absolution and apologies. Their kiss reignites the bond between them and he feels the cracked ground beneath them shift closer, the cracks mending.
Jean's hand covers his own on her thigh and pushes it forward, up and under her skirt so his fingers can ghost over her bare skin. "You can touch me, Lucien."
It's the permission he needs and he stands from his desk chair and fits himself between her legs, falling upon her like a man dying of thirst. Days without touch have driven him mad and Jean is staying, staying, staying.
His mouth is hot and searching, covering her lips and cheek and neck. His hands wander over her hips and shoulders and back, drumming across her ribs, brushing her breast. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't keep his hands in one place, not when there was so much of her he hadn't touched in days.
Jean clings to him, offering her body to him, knowing how important touch is to him. If she's honest with herself, she needs it to. She had thought cutting herself off from him, from his presence, would help clear her head, give her space. He's larger than life and she can't help but feel she's a little bit stuck in his orbit, simply circling and waiting for him to pull and push her in.
The lack of his touch though had only left her feeling more out of sorts, scared and unsure where they were headed. At least now, with his body pressed against hers, she feels whole and safe.
His words are murmured on her skin, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you. Over and over again until she feels the words branded on her skin.
It's not perfect and their relationship will always be messy, but perhaps she's been tidy for too long. She threads their fingers together, admiring the easy fit. Like this, tied together, she feels certain they will be okay, certain their futures are entwined.
It's at least a start on the road to recovery.