The next few days passed like a dream that refused to end-soft around the edges, warm in the middle, and full of moments that made Hriva wonder if she had stumbled into a different life. A better one. One where the ache in her chest wasn't from loneliness, but from how full her heart had suddenly become.
Jake wasn't just attentive-he was present.
He remembered things she didn't even realize she'd said. He sent her songs that reminded him of her. He called when he said he would. And when they were together, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
They didn't rush it-but they didn't hold back either.
The third night after their "official" moment, Jake invited her over to his place.
"No picnic this time," he had said over the phone. "Just homemade pizza and whatever terrible movie you're in the mood to torture me with."
"You're the one who screamed at pancake mix," Hriva had teased.
"I stand by my trauma."
She laughed, but under that humor, her heart thudded differently.
This would be the first time she'd really spend time alone with him-his space, his world, no distractions. She wasn't nervous, exactly. But there was a crackle in the air now. A new current. Something unspoken but undeniably alive.
Jake's apartment was simple. Clean. A little cluttered in a charming, lived-in way. Guitars leaned against the wall near the couch. A shelf was overflowing with records and dog-eared books. There was a framed photo of his late father near the television, and a handwritten quote pinned on the fridge that read, "Find someone whose silence feels like home."
She read it slowly. Then turned to him.
"This… feels like you."
Jake smiled, quiet. "I hope it feels like us."
Their eyes met across the room.
It was one of those rare silences again-the kind that made the rest of the world fade out.
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
Instead, Jake handed her a glass of wine and sat beside her on the couch, their knees barely touching.
"You ever think about how weird this is?" he asked.
"What?"
"This. Us. How fast it's happening. How right it feels even though we're still figuring it out."
Hriva nodded. "I do. But it doesn't feel forced."
"No," he said, softly. "It feels overdue."
She looked at him then, the shadows of the room dancing across his jaw, his throat, the way his hand rested so easily near hers.
She wanted to touch him.
Not out of lust, not yet-but out of that aching need to feel connected. To remind herself he was real.
So she did.
She slid her hand into his. Their fingers locked like they had done it a thousand times before.
"You make me feel seen, Jake."
He looked at her, and something behind his eyes shifted. "That's because I see you."
And then he kissed her.
Slow. Deep. Patient.
Not a claiming-but an invitation.
He didn't push. He didn't pull.
He stayed-right there in the moment with her, breathing her in like she was his first and last breath all at once.
The movie played in the background, forgotten. Their wine sat untouched on the table. The only thing that mattered was the way his mouth tasted of heat and comfort, the way his hand cupped her jaw like she was something delicate and precious.
At some point, Hriva curled into his lap, her knees drawn up, her head against his chest. They talked in whispers about everything and nothing-childhood memories, guilty pleasures, the one time Jake broke his arm trying to impress a girl in sixth grade.
"She wasn't even impressed," he muttered.
"She must've been blind."
Jake looked down at her. "You're trouble."
"You're addicted."
He chuckled. "Probably."
A few hours later, she got up to leave-but Jake didn't let her go easily.
At the door, he pulled her close again. His fingers slid into her hair. His lips brushed her temple, her cheek, then hovered near her mouth like a question.
"I want this," he murmured. "But I want to do it right. I don't want you to ever think I only want one part of you."
Her throat tightened.
"I don't think that," she whispered. "But I like hearing it."
"Then I'll keep saying it."
She left that night with her heart thrumming, her body warm from his touch, but more than anything-with a deep, grounded certainty.
Jake wasn't just a phase.
He wasn't just a thrill.
He was becoming her safe place.
And even though they hadn't made love yet, something about their connection already felt more intimate than any night she'd ever spent in someone else's arms.
The kind of intimacy that started in the heart before it ever reached the skin.