The rest of our dinner was much less awkward. It took a while, but the hesitation faded away, and slowly but surely, the Ziggy I knew came back. I lost track of time, staring into his eyes while I laughed, watching him smile when he made me laugh, too. We ate our lobster, finished our champagne, and stayed for so long, the waiter asked us to leave so they could clear the table. It felt like we only had an hour together when we had nearly three. Six months of distance was too much to make up for in one date.

We walked outside where I intended to call my Uber. He pulled me to him, pinning me gently against his car. He leaned in and kissed me so perfectly my head floated. I let him hold me, let his kisses linger.

"Come home with me," he said against my lips. I knew that was a bad idea.

"I shouldn't." He coaxed me back into his kiss. His tongue slid against mine before taking my lips again. I hummed and pulled him closer. Once again, my body was delivering the complete opposite message than my brain intended. "I really . . . shouldn't," I said between his sensual kisses.

He leaned away. "Why not?"

"If I go home with you, we both know what's going to happen."

He looked away with a laugh. "I didn't say anything about sex. I just don't want to let you go yet."

I didn't want him to either. "Then let's go somewhere else."

"Exactly. Let's go back to my place." He placed two more kisses against my lips.

I knew if I agreed to go home with him, there would be no way I'd be able to resist him. The last thing I needed to do was sleep with him before I had time to sort out what I was feeling. But every time he kissed me, all I could think about was just that.

He opened the car door for me. I hesitated but got in without another word. What am I getting myself into?

He drove us back to his place. His hand had rested on my thigh the whole time, his finger tapping with the beat of the old indie classics playing. I watched him, trying to read whether something else was hiding behind what seemed like joy. But, every time he had looked my way, there was nothing but a smile. I didn't know why I couldn't manage the same.

We walked inside and I was quickly reminded how cool his place was. The double-height space looked much larger when it wasn't filled with people. The furniture that had been piled in the loft area was now situated in the living space. Warm, brown couches and sofas, another reclaimed wood coffee table, and a plush rug. He didn't have a TV, but apparently, had a whole-house sound system.

A mellow version of what we had listened to in the car played quietly in the background. The slow beats were a perfect accompaniment to the dimmed lights and lounge feel of his space.

"Can I make you a drink?" he asked. I wanted to say no but I wanted the distraction from my anxiety even more.

"Sure."

"What do you want?"

Something strong. "Do you have whiskey?"

"Of course. Jack Daniels?"

"Preferably," I said with a smile.

He went to the kitchen to make it and I walked along the wall to view his series of portraits. So many emotions were captured in such small frames. I reached the larger, framed prints and spotted myself. The three images he had posted on Instagram hung directly above and beside his bed. I wondered how long they had been there.

The sound of a bottle opener made me flinch. I retreated to the living room and sat on the couch. I tugged at my fingers nervously, looking through the huge windows that were tilted open. A gentle breeze wafted in the sounds of the city streets below. None of it eased my anxiety.

The couch shifted, and I turned. He smiled and handed me the glass. "You're very talented," I said, nudged my head toward the images hanging nearby.

"Thank you."

"I remember you taking those," I gestured to his bed. "I didn't think they would turn out so well."

He smiled and sipped his Pellegrino. "I always tell you how beautiful you are. I guess you needed photographic proof." He leaned an arm on the back of the couch behind me. I hugged myself.

"I saw the pictures you took through treatment," I said quietly.

"You did?"

"Yeah." I didn't mention the reasons I followed him, or how I had felt when I first saw the images. "I know it was hard for you."

He shrugged. "I didn't want to talk about it at all. But, if I didn't, people would fill in the blanks themselves." He looked perturbed as he set his water on the table. "People don't want to know what it was like. They don't want to know about freezing my sperm, burning the enamel off my teeth from throwing up too much, the loss of my body autonomy and my dignity, all for the slim chance of getting better. They don't want to know that after I chose to fight, I regretted every second of every day unless you were convincing me otherwise."

"Ziggy," I sighed while my heart was breaking. 

I sat my glass on the table and blinked away tears. He ran his hand down my cheek, leaned in slowly, and pressed a light kiss to my lips. Then another. My heart fluttered. 

He pulled his lips slowly from mine. "You know I wouldn't be here without you."

The hazel of his eyes shimmered as he looked at me, the same way they did right before he went under for his surgery. It reminded me of all the pain, the fear, the disappointment in myself for not being able to be someone or something I wasn't. I wanted to be with him then. Why was I hesitant to be with him now? 

Reading my discomfort, he pulled me closer. His arm wrapped around me, the other at my cheek, he let his lips fill the silence without speaking. I welcomed it.

I took his face in my hands and pulled him closer. His lips against mine melted both my fears and my resolve. I felt high in his arms, my body pleading with me to give him whatever he wanted. He always managed to do this to me. 

Lost in the feeling of his kiss, I barely noticed we were tilting until my back landed on the cushion. His hand slid up my thigh and lifted my dress. He moved to lie between my legs. I stopped him. "We can't do this. It's too soon."

"Too soon? It's been months."

Something about that hit me in just the wrong place. "It's been six months," I whispered.

"What?"

Pushing him away, I stood and hugged myself, looking away from him. "Six months." My eyes began to water with all the feelings that had been hiding behind my excitement. "I haven't seen you in six months."

Ziggy looked confused at my reaction. When he stood and started to approach me, I took a step back.

"When you needed me, I was there for you. Every day. I almost lost my fucking job and every time I looked at myself didn't care, because you were so much more important to me than anything else. Then the minute you got better, you disappeared." I took in a quivering breath, feeling myself beginning to lose the fight with my tears.

"Disappeared? I was right here the whole time."

"No. You weren't. All I wanted was for you to recover so I would know I'd never have to live without you. But then you left and it was as if I lost you anyway." I felt a tear roll down my cheek. "You needed someone to help you get through it all, Ziggy, and it happened to be me. But I needed someone to help me get through it, too. I needed you," I told him. "I had you and then I didn't. You can't just show up as if the last six months without you didn't almost kill me."

He looked shocked. "I had no idea you felt that way. I'm so sorry," his voice was sincere. "Hurting you was the opposite of what I was trying to do."

I wiped my cheek. "Then what were you trying to do?" I asked angrily.

"I was trying to be with you," he said as if that made any sense. "Every minute I was away from you, you were always on my mind. Everything I did in the last six months was for a chance to be with you for the rest of my life." His voice quivered as he stared into my eyes.

"Then why didn't you? Why did you leave if all you wanted to do was stay?"

"Because I couldn't bear for you to look at me and see the same person I was during my treatment. I wanted you to see the man I used to be—strong, sexy, pretentious—anything but fucking sick."

"That is never what you were to me," I asserted. "You were never just my patient. You know you were more than that."

He shook his head. "I didn't know that. How could I believe that when I saw a remnant of what I was before? When every time you looked at me, there was pity in your eyes?" His voice got angrier the more he said. "I couldn't bear to know that you wouldn't want me the same way I wanted you."

I never associated his character with his illness, and it never tainted the way I felt about him. "Do you really think I'm so superficial that I wouldn't be with you just because you were sick?!"

"No!" he yelled back but stopped himself from saying more. 

He ran the backs of his fingers back and forth against his lips, looking as if he were collecting his thoughts. He calmed himself and looked back at me. 

"Every person you have ever loved has left you, just like they have to me. They've walked away when things got too hard, they've passed away just when you thought things would be okay." His voice grew raspy with his tears. "I didn't want you to look at me and see a person who almost left you. I didn't want you to think that if you let yourself love me, I'd be just another person you'd have to lose."

I stared at him as a tear rolled down my cheek. He was right. As much as I cared for him, I was afraid to admit how much he meant to me because I was afraid to feel that pain again. Some part of me thought the more I let myself love him, the more likely I was to lose him.

But I didn't lose him. He was here, whether I loved him or not.

He wiped away a tear and stared at me with that same look of desperation. "I love you, Sabine. I did not mean to make the last six months show you otherwise."

I stared at him breathlessly.

Why does he do this to me? Say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

"Show me," I said just above a whisper.

"What?"

"Show me, Ziggy." I wiped the last of my tears away with exasperation. "Show me what you've been working so hard to impress me with these last six, fucking months."