11 Years -Part 2. continued

Brandon returned and this time he did not stand. He sat beside her, close enough that the warmth of him changed the air. From beneath the counter he brought a bundle of papers, uneven, some folded, some stained with old coffee rings.

He placed them between them like an offering to Karen almost shy.

“These are not finished,” he said. “They never learned how to behave.” Karen smiled once, then began. She read slowly. Each page seemed to breathe. The writing was raw, unguarded, sometimes clumsy, sometimes exact in a way that made her chest ache. There were mothers who vanished without dying. Fathers who stayed but never arrived. Men who stood at windows, wanting and afraid of what wanting might cost. She held a tissue in her left hand, careful, so careful, that her tears would fall only onto paper meant for them. Not his. As she read, her body moved through quiet states. Sadness came first, low and familiar. Then excitement, the thrill of being trusted with something unfinished. Awe followed, surprising her with its gentleness. Beneath it all lived a soft sensual awareness. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just present. The sense of being near a living nerve. Brandon brought another cup of coffee without speaking. As he set it down, his fingers brushed her hair behind her ear. The gesture was small, almost absent minded, yet it stayed. Karen did not look up. Halfway through, she felt him watching her cry. When she glanced sideways, his eyes were wet too. He looked startled by himself, like someone caught speaking aloud in an empty room.

“Don’t hug me,” she said quietly. “Don’t make it cliché.”

He laughed, a sound that broke cleanly through the heaviness.

“To hug you,” he said, “I would have to purify every ounce of sin I have committed.”

Karen leaned closer. Not touching. Just closer. “Your sins,” she said, “are what made you reach where you are standing today. In front of me.” Something moved through him then. Not tenderness alone. Something older. His breath deepened. His body responded before his mind could arrange permission. Desire rose, primal and vivid, asking for action. He did nothing. He stayed. He breathed. Karen placed the last page down. “I have to leave now.” She stood. He did not stop her. That night, after the café closed and the snow had softened into silence, Brandon sat alone and wrote a letter to his father. He did not explain. He did not accuse. He wrote about a woman who read his words as if they were alive. About standing in front of someone without armor. About the strange holiness of restraint. He did not sign the letter. Outside, the city slept, unaware of what had almost been touched. Part-1: http://romshiwonder.blogspot.com/2026/01/11-years.html