POV: Lyra
The studio is too quiet now.
Not even the rain can cover the weight of what's sitting between us—on this old couch, in this small room, in this hour we both pretended we wouldn't need.
Kairo leans forward slightly, shoulders hunched like he's shrinking himself on purpose.
As if he knows this space doesn't fully belong to him.
I stay still.
Wrapped in my shawl, legs folded beneath me, trying not to let the warmth of him—his scent, his presence, his being here—undo the distance I fought to build.
"You're still cold," I say, barely above a whisper.
He looks at me.
Then down at his soaked shirt. His damp sleeves.
"I didn't really think it through," he murmurs. "I just… came."
I stand and walk to the corner of the room, pulling the spare studio throw from the back of my chair. It smells like fabric softener and candles—soft, familiar, safe.
I hand it to him.
He takes it, hesitates.
"Thanks."
The room falls into silence again, save for the faint dripping of rain outside and the hum of the city muffled by the windows.
He rubs the blanket across his arms slowly. The motion is small, but it makes him look human.
Not the CEO.
Not Elijah's best friend.
Just… him.
"What were you working on before I ruined your peace?" he asks lightly, gesturing toward the sketchpad on the table.
I sigh, walking back over and picking it up.
I hold it out.
He leans forward to take it.
A long, hesitant pause as he studies the lines—soft pencil strokes forming a dress that doesn't exist yet.
"It's different," he says.
"So am I," I reply quietly.
He glances up at me.
Something shifts.
Not in the air—but in us.
A small, quiet permission.
"Can I ask something?" he says.
I nod.
His eyes drop back to the page.
"Why did you tell me to come, if you weren't sure you'd let me stay?"
I sit beside him again, but closer this time. Our knees almost touch.
"I didn't know if I'd let you in," I admit. "But I knew I'd regret it if I didn't give you the chance."
He nods. Slowly. Carefully.
Then he says it.
"I miss you."
The words hit like a slow punch.
Not because they're shocking—but because they're so simple, and so honest, and so unlike him.
I swallow hard, looking at the fabric bunched in my hands.
"You don't get to miss me, Kairo."
"Why not?"
"Because you never had me in the first place."
He looks like he wants to say something back. Maybe argue. Maybe apologize again.
But he doesn't.
He just looks down. Breathes.
Then softly:
"Can I stay for a bit?"
I hesitate.
Not because I don't want him to…
…but because I do.
I nod.
He leans back on the couch. I do too.
For a while, we say nothing.
He closes his eyes. I keep mine open.
The rain slows. The air stills.
And in that fragile silence, something happens.
He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing mine.
I don't move away.
He opens his eyes again. Looks at me.
This time, no armor.
"Lyra…"
I turn toward him.
And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
He leans in. Not fully. Just close enough for our foreheads to almost touch.
"I want to try. I don't know how. But I want to try… if you'll let me."
My heart stutters.
He's so close.
But I can't kiss him.
Not yet.
Not now.
Because if I do…
I won't stop.
Instead, I whisper:
"You have to earn it this time."
His eyes search mine.
And he nods.
"I will."