Don't Explain

ten.

When Prince got back to LA, there was a noticeable lull in our communication. A week passed, and while we exchanged a few texts here and there, we hadn't made any plans to meet. I found myself checking my phone more often than usual, half expecting a summons from him, but it didn't come right away. The space between us felt strange—like a pause in the rhythm of something that was always moving, unpredictable but steady in its own way.

One evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the city, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and saw his name. My heart did a little flip as I opened the message.

Come to the house tonight. Be here by 6.

It was simple, direct, typical Prince. There were no pleasantries, no asking if I was free—just an expectation that I would show up. And even though a part of me still wrestled with the mixed emotions from our last encounter, I knew I'd go. I always did.

By the time I arrived at his house, the evening had fully settled in, the sky a soft shade of lavender. His home, as always, loomed large and imposing, but there was a familiarity in it now—a strange comfort that came with knowing what to expect, at least in terms of the setting.

When I walked in, Prince was already waiting in the living room. He stood near the window, his back to me, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. The atmosphere felt different—calmer, quieter. It wasn't like the intense urgency of some of our other meetings.

I lingered in the doorway for a second, unsure of how to approach after the days of silence. But before I could speak, he turned around, his eyes locking onto mine. "I missed you," he said, his voice low but steady.

I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected admission. Prince wasn't one to express his feelings so openly. For a moment, I didn't know how to respond. The tension that had built up over the past week started to melt away, replaced by something softer, more intimate.

"I missed you too," I finally replied, stepping closer.

There was no rush in his movements this time, no immediate demand for me to fulfill. Instead, he closed the distance between us, his hand resting on the small of my back as he leaned in to kiss me. It wasn't hurried or forceful, just... tender. And that tenderness made me lower my guard, at least for the moment.

Prince pulled back from the kiss, his hand still resting gently on my waist. "I had the chef prepare dinner," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Come on, I'll show you."

He led me to the dining room, which was beautifully set—low lighting, soft music in the background, and the faint scent of something delicious wafting through the air. It felt more intimate than I expected, more like a quiet evening between two people trying to reconnect, rather than the usual high-pressure dynamic we often had.

We sat down at the table, and the chef brought out the first course—something light and fragrant, a salad with fresh herbs and delicate slices of fruit. I took a bite, the flavors bursting on my tongue, and realized just how hungry I was. It wasn't just food that I craved, though; I realized how much I missed this—being with him when things were calm, easy.

We talked as we ate, our conversation flowing more naturally than it had in a long time. Prince told me about his trip, about the meetings he'd had and the deals he was working on. He even mentioned his family, albeit briefly, as if testing the waters to see how I'd react. I kept things light, asking questions here and there, but mostly just listening, letting him guide the conversation.

As the evening progressed, the meal evolved into more courses—each one just as beautifully crafted as the last. We weren't in a rush, taking our time between bites, sipping wine, and enjoying the atmosphere.