She didn't shut the door.
That should've been my sign to leave. To walk away before I ruin what little dignity still lives between us. But I didn't.
She stepped aside.
Silent.
Still guarded—but she let me in.
Now I'm standing in her studio again, surrounded by pieces of her. Draped fabric. Pinned sketches. Torn thread. And it feels sacred—like I'm trespassing.
She doesn't say anything. Just walks to her table, closes her sketchbook gently, and stands there. Waiting.
I don't know what I expected. Shouting? Crying? Anything but this cold silence that slices cleaner than anger.
'I wasn't supposed to come here,' I say softly.
She raises an eyebrow. 'And yet, here you are.'
Her voice isn't sharp—but it isn't kind either. It's measured. Controlled. Like she doesn't trust what might slip out if she lets herself feel too much.
I step closer, slowly, not touching anything. Not even the air between us.
'I meant it. Everything I said at the door. I didn't come here to confuse you again, Lyra.'
'Then why did you?'
I swallow.
'Because I haven't been able to think straight since the night I left. Because you were in every room I walked into—even when you weren't there. Because I've spent my whole life building walls, and you walked in like they didn't matter.'
She turns toward me, finally facing me fully.
'Then why did you run?'
I close the space between us. Just a step.
'I was scared I'd ruin you.'
'You don't get to decide what I can survive.'
That lands deeper than I expected.
She's shaking a little, not visibly—but I can feel it in the way her voice dips, the way her fingers curl around the edge of the table.
She looks up at me.
And I let the silence do what my words can't.
I take another step. Now she has to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact.
'You think I don't feel this?' I say, my voice low, close.
She doesn't move.
I reach up, slowly, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't flinch.
I feel her breath catch.
Mine too.
My hand lingers, grazing her jaw. She leans into it, just barely.
Her lips part—soft, uncertain.
I almost close the gap.
Almost.
But then she whispers, 'If you touch me like that again… you don't get to disappear.'
My hand freezes.
Because I know she means it.
And if I do this now—if I cross that line—we'll both burn.
But I want it.
God, I want her.
I step back.
Slow.
Painful.
Her face tightens, unreadable.
'Not like this,' I murmur. 'You deserve more than a half-way man.'
I walk toward the door, hand on the knob, heart beating in a rhythm I don't recognize.
'I'll be back,' I say, softly.
And this time… I mean it.