Three days.
That's how long it's been since the night he came to the studio.
Since I let him sleep on my couch.
Since I woke up and found him still there.
Since he told me he'd try.
He hasn't called.
And I haven't reached out.
It's not avoidance. Not exactly.
It's… waiting.
To see if the words he said meant more than just a moment.
To see if he meant them outside of candlelight and soft rain and worn-out confessions.
And now—here he is.
Sitting across from me in a coffee shop that smells like brown sugar and too many memories.
This wasn't planned.
It wasn't an accident either.
He sent a message this morning.
"If you're free, I'll be at Rue 5 by four."
Not a demand.
Not even a request.
Just a sentence.
And somehow, I found myself saying "okay."
Now, I sip oat milk cappuccino through a trembling grip, wondering what this is.
He looks the same.
Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Watch I remember seeing the first time I ever noticed his hands.
But his expression? It's different.
He's not trying to win.
He's just… present.
"How's the studio?" he asks.
"Busy," I say. "I had to redo a whole piece after realizing the bride hated tulle."
He smiles slightly.
"You always hated tulle."
"You remember?"
"You ranted about it for ten minutes at Elijah's birthday party three years ago."
I blink.
He remembers that?
He glances at my cup. "Still oat milk?"
"Still."
A soft pause.
There's a gentle buzz of conversation around us—cutlery, laughter, orders being called out. But here, at this tiny corner table, it feels like we're on an island.
And it's the first time we've had real space to… talk.
No Elijah.
No late night.
No couch between us.
Just this.
Just us.
"I've been thinking," he says, setting his mug down slowly.
I brace.
"About what?"
"About how long I let you exist in my life as an afterthought. Or worse… a secret."
My stomach tightens.
"I wasn't trying to hurt you, Lyra. I was trying to protect something. Elijah. Our friendship. You. Myself."
"I never asked for protection," I say softly. "I just wanted honesty."
He nods.
And then, quietly:
"I didn't think I deserved you."
The words hang in the air.
He's not saying them for sympathy.
He's saying them because they're true.
And in some way… I already knew.
"I didn't need you to be perfect," I reply. "I just needed you to choose me when it mattered."
A long pause.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped.
"I'm here now. Not just showing up. I want to understand what it means to really choose you."
My pulse stumbles.
He doesn't touch me.
Doesn't push.
But his eyes say it.
He means it this time.
I look down at my coffee.
Then back up at him.
"Then start with this," I say. "No more unfinished sentences. No more hiding. If you feel something—say it."
He breathes in, steady and slow.
"I feel something."
I look at him.
Hard.
"And?"
"I'm falling in love with you."
The words aren't loud.
They're not dramatic.
But they're real.
And I feel them like a slow crack down the middle of my chest.
I don't respond right away.
Because I'm scared.
But I don't run either.
Instead, I set my cup down and meet his eyes.
"Okay," I whisper.
And this time… he smiles.