I turned on my side, eyes fixed on the faint glow of the city filtering through the blinds. The clock on the bedside table blinked 11:42 P.M. in quiet defiance.
My body was still, but my mind wouldn't rest.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that moment again, the distance between us collapsing, the warmth of his breath, the way the world seemed to still for one impossible heartbeat.
I hated that I remembered.
I hated that part of me wanted to.
Outside, thunder rolled far away, a dull echo across the skyline.
It felt like the kind of night that asked for something to happen.
A knock came.
Soft.
Careful.
Once, then twice.
I froze.
For a second, I thought I'd imagined it, but there it was again, a quiet insistence against the silence.
When I opened the door, he was standing there.
Calix.
His hair was damp from the rain, shirt clinging to him, collar slightly undone.
He looked like someone who had wrestled with a decision and lost to it.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low.
"I was trying."
"I know," he said simply. "So was I."
He held out a paper bag. "I brought coffee. Don't ask why. It felt better than overthinking."
I took it without a word, stepping aside.
He entered quietly, leaving a trail of rain behind him.
We didn't speak for a while.
He leaned against the counter while I poured the coffee into mugs, the air between us thick but not heavy.
Then, finally, he said, "You've been quieter than usual."
"I'm always quiet."
"This is different."
I met his gaze across the counter. "You talk too much."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. But sometimes that's how people keep from drowning."
His words lingered, unsettlingly honest.
I looked away first.
"Why are you here, Calix?"
"Because you looked like you'd rather disappear than talk about what happened."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," he said softly. "You just don't know what to do with something that doesn't hurt."
The stillness in his tone disarmed me more than the words themselves.
He took a few steps closer, slow enough for me to move away if I wanted to.
I didn't.
"I shouldn't have come here," he said. "But pretending that last night didn't mean anything feels worse."
I inhaled sharply. "It meant nothing."
"Then why can't you look at me when you say that?"
The question hit too close, too clean.
I set the mug down, fingers trembling just slightly. "Because you make it complicated."
"Maybe it already is."
There was no hesitation this time when he reached out, brushing his thumb lightly against my jaw.
The gesture was simple, but it felt like a question, one that I didn't know how to answer.
I should have stepped back.
I should have built another wall.
But instead, I stayed still.
"You're going to regret this," I whispered.
"Probably," he said. "But not tonight."
And then the space between us vanished.
The kiss wasn't careful this time.
I wasn't hesitant.
It was raw, full of everything we'd both been holding back.
The room felt too small for it, too real.
I didn't pull away, not because I wanted to surrender, but because for once, I didn't want to feel empty.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of us were breathing too fast.
His forehead rested against mine, the distance gone, the air electric.
"I don't know what this is," I murmured.
"Something real," he said quietly. "Maybe that's enough for now."
I closed my eyes.
For the first time, I didn't argue.
—
When the air finally settled between us, all I could hear was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythm of our breathing.
It felt wrong to move first, as if shifting would break the fragile balance that had formed in the quiet.
Calix was still close enough that I could see the small details most people miss, the way a shadow curved under his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple, the faint tremor that betrayed the calm he was trying to hold.
I stepped back a little, enough to breathe.
The room looked the same as before, yet it wasn't.
He didn't speak right away.
He just rubbed a hand across his neck, the ghost of a smile there but not quite reaching his eyes.
"I didn't come here to make things harder," he said finally. "I just couldn't stand the silence anymore."
"It's not the silence," I said. "It's the noise that comes after it."
He looked at me for a long time. "You mean the part where we have to decide what it means?"
"Yes."
He nodded slowly, as if that answer made sense. Then, softer: "Does it have to mean anything right now?"
I wanted to say yes.
That everything needed to be defined, labeled, tucked neatly away.
That was the only way I knew how to live, by order, by control.
But the words didn't come.
Instead, I sank onto the couch, pulling my knees close, the mug of coffee still untouched on the table. "I don't know how to let things just… be."
He sat across from me, elbows resting on his knees. "You don't have to. You just have to stop running from them."
His voice was calm but certain, the kind of tone that didn't push, just invited.
"I've spent my entire life being told what to do, who to be, what to win," I said. "And now you show up and tell me to stop."
"I'm not telling you to stop," he said. "I'm asking you to breathe."
That word, breathe, hit deeper than I expected.
He stood up then, walked to the window, and looked out at the city.
The rain had stopped; the streets below shimmered in the glow of headlights and wet asphalt. "Do you ever think about leaving all of this?" he asked quietly.
"Leaving?"
"The noise. The pressure. The family names."
I hesitated. "And go where?"
"Anywhere you could be Aurora. Not Aquino. Not the daughter who can't fail. Just… you."
I almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because the idea felt too foreign. "I wouldn't know what to do with that kind of freedom."
"Maybe that's the point."
For a moment we were both quiet again, staring at the reflection of the city in the glass.
When he turned back to me, his expression had softened. "You don't have to answer anything tonight. I just wanted you to know I'm not going anywhere."
I met his eyes, searching for the usual hint of irony, the playfulness that made him impossible to take seriously. But there was none of that now.
He meant it.
And that terrified me more than the kiss.
Because somewhere deep inside, a part of me wanted to believe him.
He took a step toward the door, paused, and said over his shoulder, "Get some sleep, Aurora."
"I'll try."
He smiled faintly. "That's new."
When the door clicked shut, I stood there in the half-dark, the city still whispering beyond the windows.
My reflection stared back, hair tousled, eyes bright in a way I didn't recognize.
I wasn't sure what any of this was supposed to be.
But for the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about winning or proving.
I was just… feeling.
And somehow, that was harder than anything else I'd ever done.