Refulgence (Ch 13)

Wherein bodies soften, histories surface, and something ancient stirs—an act that reshapes the very nature of connection.

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Harold woke first.

Eva lay on her stomach, breathing softly into the pillow. At some point she’d rolled away, her cheek smushed into the cotton, a curl stuck to her temple. One arm flung wide, the other anchoring him. The light was dim, that hush before the world fully stirred.

He slid his arm free with the precision of someone trained to move gently through delicate things. She didn’t stir. He padded to the bathroom and shut the door with the faintest click.

When he returned, she was sprawled diagonally, covers kicked back, one knee bent like she’d been dreaming of running. Her mouth hung open, a smear of drool glinting on the pillow. Not angelic, but deeply human.

He bit back a laugh.

Climbing into bed again, Harold slid in behind her, easing an arm around her waist and pulling her toward him. She resisted—still caught in sleep’s fog—but then sighed and curled into him with the ease of memory. Her head settled on his chest, cheek pressed to his bare skin, and she murmured something unintelligible.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Morning,” she mumbled, the syllables tangled in a yawn.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured, kissing her hair. “Sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” she said. “A very dead rock.”

He grinned. “Sorry I got back so late. Surgery didn’t finish until close to midnight. I texted you when I got out, but I suspect you were already asleep.”

“That’s okay,” she said, squeezing him gently, her voice barely more than breath.

His hand moved slowly across the slope of her back, a steady rhythm, more comfort than seduction.

“I was surprised to see you here when I got back,” he said after a moment. “In my bed, I mean.”

There was a pause. For a second he thought she might have drifted off again, lulled by the warmth and the repetition of his hand against her spine. But then she stirred, just enough to lift her head and nestle closer, her voice coming soft and clear against his chest.

“Your bed felt like the safest place in the house.”

He closed his eyes at that—just for a moment—and let the words settle into him. Something unwound in his chest. Not all the way, but enough.

“Then it’s exactly where you belong,” he whispered, holding her just a little tighter.

The soft morning light brushed Eva’s cheek as she turned more fully toward Harold. Her mouth found his, warm and slow as their kiss deepened. Her body moved instinctively, climbing atop him, pressing close. Their limbs tangled with practiced ease as they kissed again—this time with hunger.

Harold felt himself awaken fully, his desire quickening. Eva shifted lower, trailing kisses down his chest, and with unhurried confidence, took him gently into her mouth. Her touch, artful and deliberate, coaxed him toward hardness.

When he was ready, she straddled him, easing him inside her with a slow, delicious sigh. She moved with sensual control, hips rocking in deliberate arcs. Her hands traced his chest. Her body moved in a rhythm that was both offering and demanding.

Harold’s hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking into the plush curves of her rear as their movements grew more insistent. Their moans wove together, rising and falling in a breathless, shared cadence—a duet of pleasure and presence.

But after a while, he felt his body falter. The fullness of arousal slipped away. Eva, noticing the change, slowed her movements and looked down, searching his face with concern.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

Harold closed his eyes, frustrated, and carefully guided her off him. “Just…give me a minute,” he murmured, lying back. He ran a hand down between his legs, trying to will his body back into readiness. He wasn’t ready to let go of this moment, not yet.

Eva watched from the sidelines, touching herself lightly to keep the current alive, though her eyes never left him. After a few minutes, the silence between them grew heavier.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I think it was the late night. That surgery took a lot out of me. At my age…” He trailed off, shame blooming across his features.

Eva sat up, reached for his hand, and placed hers gently atop it.

“It’s okay, Harold,” she said gently. “Shit happens.”

He turned to her, eyes filled with apology. “I didn’t want to let you down.”

“You didn’t,” she said, brushing her thumb along his wrist. Her smile was quiet, mischievous. “We can still have fun.”

Her gaze drifted down his body. Without a word, she nudged his hand gently aside and lowered her mouth to him once more, tender and teasing. Her lips moved with practiced grace, her tongue tracing him in delicate sweeps.

Harold exhaled in a stunned, broken rhythm. His head tipped back against the pillows, and he gave himself over to the tide she created. Every flick, every press of her tongue, every subtle shift of her mouth brought new sensation, rich and engulfing even though he didn’t harden. His fists clenched the sheets, breath stuttering.

One of her hands slid lower, slow and exploratory, cupping him with gentle reverence. Her fingertips massaging softly until even his tensest muscles melted into surrender. He was adrift in her touch, helpless in the best possible way.

Eventually she lifted her head, her eyes gleaming.

“Ever had a prostate massage?” she asked, lightly, like she already knew the answer.

Harold looked at her through dazed eyes. “Outside of a doctor’s office?” he rasped.

Eva smirked. “Feeling adventurous?”

“Woman,” he said, his voice rough with delight, “you can do whatever you want—as long as you put that mouth back where it belongs.”

She laughed, kissed his hip, then stood. “I need lube. And gloves. Surgical ones.”

Harold raised a brow, intrigued, but offered no protest. “Check the medicine cabinet—top shelf.”

She disappeared into the ensuite, returning moments later with gloves in hand. He had already retrieved the lube, which sat like a silent invitation on his abdomen. She accepted it with a little wink, then pulled on one glove and knelt once more between his legs.

Her mouth reclaimed him, soft and pliant. A single gloved digit slipped past his puckered hole, trailing cool slickness. Her other hand, bare, stroked the sensitive skin between mouth and finger. She orchestrated each movement with adoration and skill, her attention precise and unhurried.

Harold tried to remain quiet, but his breath gave him away once she reached her target. A low moan curled up from his throat, then another—rougher, less restrained. Words escaped in fragments, praise and profanity tumbling together.

“Oh—god. Oh, fuck,” he gasped. “Don’t—don’t you dare stop, you fucking whore.”

Eva paused for a half-second, surprised and amused, but didn’t lift her head. Her mouth remained steady, her hands attuned to every twitch, every shift in breath. Harold was unraveling beneath her in an altogether different manner, and he didn’t seem to care.

His voice cracked again, deeper now. “You filthy slut. You dirty, perfect—” but the rest dissolved into a guttural groan.

His release crept up not like thunder but like a breaking wave—unexpected, overwhelming, drawn out by her rhythm and the sheer sensuality of being held so completely in pleasure. He reached for her, hand fumbling for her wrist, but she stayed the course until the last tremor passed.

When she finally rose, his eyes were glassy with awe, his chest rising and falling in slow, grateful breaths.

Eva peeled off the glove inside-out with a snap and let it fall to the floor beside the bed. Then she wiped her mouth delicately, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. “You okay?” she whispered.

He blinked at her, somewhere between bliss and disbelief. “You may have just ruined me for anyone else.”

Eva smiled, stretched like a cat, and curled in beside him—her head on his shoulder, one leg tangled with his.

“Hmm,” she murmured with satisfaction. “Sounds like job security to me.”

They lay in a warm tangle of limbs and afterglow, the silence humming with residual pleasure. Harold’s breath had begun to steady, but his eyes were still unfocused, like he was drifting between worlds.

“I seem to have found your dirty talk switch,” she said lightly.

Harold groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Oh Jesus…I’m sorry, Eva.”

“No, no,” she said, amused. “It was very entertaining.” Her fingers traced absent circles on his chest. “Somewhat ironic, though, that it resides inside the dirtiest part of you, don’t you think?”

Harold exhaled then turned to her with a wry smile. “I guess we’ve established I’m a real gentleman…until you press the right buttons.”

He paused, then added with mock gravity, “I trust you’ll keep that switch safely guarded—far away from work functions and holiday dinners.”

Eva snorted against his shoulder, and they both dissolved into laughter. She let him settle for a moment, then tilted her head to look at him.

Harold’s face had gone soft in a way she’d never seen before, open and unguarded. The strain he carried so often had melted from his features, leaving him startlingly human: beautiful in his flaws, vulnerable in his truth, and—God help her—utterly perfect to her in that very instant.

Something clicked, an unexpected recognition that this was the man beneath the layers, and that he had offered her a glimpse of this reality without quite meaning to. She found herself wondering whether he would have allowed her that glimpse had he known exactly what she was seeing in that moment.

“We should shower,” she said suddenly. “Get up before the day slips away.”

Eva sat up and tugged gently at Harold’s hand, and he followed her without protest, watching the sway of her hips as she led him into the bathroom. He swore her walk was more pronounced than usual, almost exaggerated. She knew he was watching. She wanted him to.

The steam had already begun to bloom around the edges of the mirror by the time the water reached its temperature. He stepped inside first, groaning as the warmth hit his shoulders. She followed, and then—without warning—took the washcloth and soap from his hands.

“Let me,” she said, her voice honeyed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Harold looked at her curiously, then raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to give her room. Eva took her time. Lathering the soap, she began at his shoulders, working the cloth in slow circles down his back, his chest, his arms. He leaned into her touch, eyes closed, breath beginning to slow. When she reached his lower body she knelt fluidly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He looked down at her, water slicking over them. The way the light hit her skin, the gleam of her damp hair, the focused grace in her expression—it made something ancient stir in him. Reverence, maybe. Or gratitude.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the small bench along the far wall. He did, still watching her as she knelt again, this time lifting one of his feet into her hands.

She washed it slowly, her thumbs pressing gently into the arch, then between each toe. She did the same with the other, careful and refined. No part was overlooked. As she rinsed away the last of the soap, her hands stilled, resting lightly on his ankles. She looked up at him.

Her expression was unreadable at first—tender, yes, but also solid, as though anchoring herself in the moment. Harold felt his chest tighten.

He sat back against the cool tile wall, still dripping, still breathless. Water poured steadily from above, steam rising in silken threads around them, softening the edges of the moment. Eva remained kneeling before him, her body glistening, dark lashes lowered in a mix of deference and calm.

He hadn’t known what to expect when she tugged him towards the shower—but certainly not this: the tender diligence with which she had washed him. The rigorous attention. The care laced through sensuality like a fine wire through silk, giving structure to the softness.

Her hands explored with purpose. Not to arouse, but to gratify. No part of him had escaped her attention. Not his shoulders, not his calves, not even the tender, ignorable spaces between his toes. She scrubbed and rinsed him like she was putting finishing touches on a statue, and he simply let her, held by the gentleness of it all.

Now, she moved her hands to rest in her lap, her eyes on his. There was no provocation in them—only gleaming warmth, that wordless state one enters when trust turns from risk to refuge.

He reached out without thinking, his hand coming to rest gently on the crown of her head. Eva’s eyes fluttered shut as the water coursed around them, trailing rivulets over their skin.

She knelt not as a servant or a seductress, but as something more difficult to name. And Harold—vulnerable, seated impassively above her—felt neither elevated nor diminished. Just human, seen and tended to.

He thought of Mary Magdalene, yes—of oil and feet and tears—but the metaphor dissolved quickly. This was neither atonement nor worship. It wasn’t a washing away, it was a kind of laying down.

Of what, though? His shields? His pride? The burdens of performing strength, day after day?

Maybe all of it.

The warm water continued to fall. Eva breathed evenly, her eyes still closed, content in repose. And for once, Harold didn’t try to explain it to himself. Didn’t reach for theory or context. He just let it be. Let her be—and himself, until the moment had given them everything it could offer.

When he felt ready, Harold slipped his hand away from her crown, the weight of it lifting like a benediction released. Eva opened her eyes and rose slowly, smoothing her hair back, then reached for the soap and cloth again. With smooth efficiency, she washed herself with practical movements, a gesture of re-entry into herself.

Outside the shower, Harold passed her a towel. They dried off and dressed in comfortable clothes—cotton, loose-fitting, soft against skin still flushed from heat.

Downstairs, Harold made his way to the kitchen. He moved through the cabinets like a man returning to familiar ground: filling the kettle, measuring out grounds, warming the ceramic mugs before setting them side by side. Eva leaned against the counter, sipping the cup he poured for her a few minutes later as he continued preparing the meal.

Harold assembled sandwiches with calm concentration, slicing tomatoes with the ease of someone who’d done this hundreds of times before. He added sliced fruit to a bowl: strawberries, cantaloupe, the end of a ripe pear. Eva watched him in silence, coffee warming her palms as her thoughts spiraled behind her eyes.

Tyler.

It felt absurd now. Unreal, like something that had happened to another version of her—a golem wearing her skin. What had she been thinking? Was it the way he looked at her like he knew her body already? The way his youth seemed to orbit around her like a dare?

No. That wasn’t it.

She didn’t want to blame the vermouth. At her age, blaming alcohol was a half-truth dressed in denial. She knew what she was doing, even if she hadn’t known where it would end. She’d chosen Tyler like someone choosing bonfire after hearth, the thrill of combustion. The ache of being seen as desirable by someone too young to understand the weight of his own hunger.

But Harold…Harold was all presence and patience. He didn’t devour, he noticed. He didn’t press, he waited. And here he was now, slicing a pear like it mattered.

Eva sipped her coffee and watched his hands. Their steadiness undid her more than any declaration could have.

She had no words for the feeling yet, only this: the ache of shame easing its grip, the sting of regret slowly dulling in the presence of someone who never once asked her to be anything other than human.

He plated the sandwiches and placed them on the table then pushed the bowl of fruit to the center like a blessing.

And Eva thought: this is the kind of man you build stories with.

The weight of the morning had shifted. They sat across from each other, easing into their chairs with the kind of silence that didn’t feel loaded. He took a bite, and so did Eva. They chewed thoughtfully, eyes wandering.

“So what did you get up to last night while I was gone?”

Eva froze, but she masked it well—swallowed too quickly, feigned a cough, then reached for her coffee, giving herself a few precious seconds to recover.

“Not much,” she said lightly, after a long sip. “Read a little. Took a nap. Jason had some friends over at the pool house. I wandered over for a bit—just to see how the cool kids party these days.”

Harold nodded, picking up his fork and eyeing the bowl of fruit. Eva plucked a slice of pear with her fingers and took a bite with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Not much has changed,” she continued breezily. “Lots of social anxiety, greasy pizza, terrible beer.”

Harold’s fork halted in midair.

“Was Jason drinking?”

Eva blinked. “There were some bottles around, but I’m not sure if he had any…why, is he underage?”

Harold pushed his plate aside. “That’s not the point.”

The shift in his tone caught her off guard. “What is the point, then?”

He exhaled sharply. “My son is an alcoholic.”

Eva stared. “What?”

“He’s been sober for almost a year. Or…” He stood up abruptly, his voice rising, “He was, up until last night.”

“Harold, wait,” Eva said, rising too, “maybe it’s not as bad as you think—”

But Harold was already moving. He shoved open the back door and strode out toward the pool house, anger stiffening every step. Eva followed close behind, barefoot, heart in her throat.

“Harold—wait—please,” she said, reaching for his elbow. “I didn’t see him drink, okay? There was a cooler. One of the guys tried to hand me a bottle, but I refused. I just assumed—”

“He shouldn’t have even had it to hand to you,” Harold snapped, not looking at her.

He threw open the pool house door and stepped inside. Jason was sprawled on the sectional, phone in hand, earbuds in. He looked up, startled. Harold’s eyes landed on the corner. Several empty bottles were stacked on the floor next to the trash bin.

“You broke your sobriety?”

Jason yanked the earbuds out. “What?”

“I said—” Harold’s voice rose again, sharp as glass, “—you broke your fucking sobriety?”

Jason stood up defensively. “I didn’t have anything! What the hell, Dad.”

“You think I’m an idiot?” Harold snapped. “I know what this looks like.”

“You don’t know,” Jason shot back. “You never ask, you just accuse. I didn’t drink. I haven’t had a drink in eleven months and seventeen days.”

“Then why the hell are there bottles everywhere?” Harold demanded.

“Because I have friends, Dad. And you know what? They drink. If I told them they couldn’t, they’d stop hanging out with me completely. I can’t live like a hermit just to prove I’m still sober.”

“You could have called me,” Harold said, voice rough and urgent, “if you felt like you were slipping. But you didn’t. You didn’t say a word—”

“Because I wasn’t slipping!”

“Two years, Jason. Two years we spent trying to get you to take recovery seriously. And now I leave you alone for one fucking night and—”

“And what?” Jason’s voice cracked. “You don’t trust me? Still?”

“I want to trust you!” Harold shouted. “But you make it so damn hard.”

Eva stepped forward, hands slightly raised. “Hey, maybe we all just take a second and breathe—”

“Stay out of this,” Harold snapped, turning on her without thinking.

The sharpness of his voice made her flinch. She took a step back, hands still half-lifted, and he saw it. Regret flickered across his face, but he wasn’t ready to deal with it—not yet. Jason noticed it too. And he pounced.

“Nice,” Jason said, biting off the word. “Real nice.”

“Don’t,” Harold warned.

But Jason only folded his arms. “I see what’s going on. She’s the one who told you I was drinking, right?”

Eva shook her head quickly. “No—I didn’t say that. I just said I saw beer, that’s it.”

Jason smirked, cruel and calculated. “Oh yeah? Well, guess what: she wasn’t exactly on her best behavior either.”

Eva’s heart dropped. “Jason—”

“Whatever,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll let you fill in the details. That way you can decide how much he should know.”

Now Harold turned fully to him. “What details?”

“Why are you asking me?” Jason said sarcastically. “I’m just an addict, probably don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

“Jason,” Harold said slowly, dangerously, “what did you mean just now?”

Jason stared him down but stayed silent.

Harold looked back and forth between them. “Did something happen between you two?”

Eva recoiled. “No—god, no!”

Jason made a face. “Jesus, Dad, get your mind out of the gutter.”

Harold’s gaze snapped to Eva, his voice loaded. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“In the meantime,” he said to his son with cold precision, “clean this fucking mess up. Now.”

Jason glared at him, mouth twisting, but knew better than to push. He muttered something under his breath and started gathering the bottles.

Harold didn’t wait to watch. He turned and walked out, jaw tight, hands clenched. Eva followed a few respectful paces behind, her steps light but shaky. She could feel the anger radiating off him like heat from pavement, steady and unrelenting.

Back in the main house, he went straight to the kitchen, sat and picked up his half-eaten sandwich with surgical precision, looking down and chewing in silence. Eva sat in the opposite chair, eyes on her plate. She didn’t touch her food, just watched him, waiting. The clock ticked. A single bird called from outside. Finally Harold set his sandwich down and looked at her, his face unreadable.

“Do I even want to know?”

Eva sighed, the breath shaking on its way out. “Probably not.” She paused, then added, more quietly, “But you should hear it anyways.”

Harold finished the last bite of his sandwich without a word. Then, slowly, he pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair. His arms folded across his chest, and he looked at her, steady and expectant.

Eva swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was low and careful.

“Saturday night,” she began, “I was alone in the house after you left for the hospital, and I wandered over to the pool house. Jason and his friends were talking and playing music—nothing wild, just hanging out. Someone offered me a beer, but I declined and got myself some spirits instead.”

She looked down at her hands, resting on the table.

“One of the guys…” She hesitated. “He was…flirty. Young. Very confident. It wasn’t serious, just stupid. I let him kiss me. For thirty seconds, maybe. Then I wanted to stop…but he didn’t.”

Harold’s jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

“He held me down. And I panicked, so I kneed him, pushed him off, and ran. He followed me—and that’s when Jason stepped in. He told the guy to leave. Made sure I was okay.”

She looked up. “Your son stood up to him and protected me.”

Harold’s expression had changed as she spoke. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something else—thoughtfulness, maybe even guilt. He stared down at the table, turning her words over in his mind.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She blinked, surprised.

“I mean it,” he said, glancing up at her. “You didn’t have to. I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’m glad to hear Jason was a force for good.” He exhaled slowly, then continued, “It stings that you kissed someone else…of course it does. But I don’t own you, Eva. That was never the deal. And even if it was—people make mistakes.”

Eva’s face tightened, emotion rising behind her composure. She was bursting inside from the pressure of what remained unsaid. If she’d only known he would respond like this…no, it was too late now.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said quickly. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I did it. Probably just to…feel like I still had it. That I’m still desirable. Even now.”

There was a long pause. Harold’s brow furrowed, his voice rough around the edges. “Is my desire for you not enough?”

Eva leaned forward slightly, her voice catching. “Oh, Harold, no…I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable—still carrying the sting of what she’d said, still holding that wound in his eyes.

She rushed to fill the silence. “It’s just that—you know how it is. Men get older and somehow they still maintain their virility, and even get sexier. The silver fox thing. The zaddy thing.” She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You go gray and suddenly you’re a DILF. But for women, aging feels like…fading. Like we just start disappearing.”

She paused, then added, softer, “Which has its perks, every now and then. But no one wants to be invisible all the time.”

Harold’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Well…I wasn’t feeling particularly virile this morning.”

She laughed, a low and genuine sound, and shook her head. “They make a pill for that, you know.”

He chuckled, the tension easing slightly. “So I’ve heard.”

They looked at each other, and for a few seconds there was warmth again—something that felt like grace.

“Harold,” she said gently, “I really am sorry.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once. “It’s okay.”

Then he stood and picked up his plate from the table, moving to the sink with purpose.

“I’ve got some chores to take care of,” he said as he rinsed. “Should take an hour or so.”

She nodded, watching him. “Alright. I’ll just hang out here. Maybe find something to watch, or take a walk.”

“Sounds good.” He wiped his hands and turned, offering her a glance that was soft but distant. “We’ll talk more later.”

Eva gave a small nod, and he walked off, his footsteps fading down the hallway. She sat there alone for a while, coffee cooling in her hand, wondering if she’d broken something she wouldn’t be able to put back together.