Leo's POV
Lana stayed silent, watching me with a steady, guarded calm.
Her arms were folded, her brows drawn ever so slightly—as if she was holding back something I couldn't read.
No anger.
No softness.
Only a quiet wall I couldn't see through.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't know what she was thinking.
"I'm not here to force anything," I said, breaking the silence that pressed between us. "Just… tell me what you need from me."
She blinked slowly, like she was choosing her words with caution.
"I don't want promises," she said. "Not the kind you break the moment things get hard."
I swallowed hard.
That one hit deeper than I expected.
"I know," I murmured. "And I'm not asking you to trust me instantly. I just want a chance to do better."
Her gaze dropped for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the table—nervous, unsure.
"You disappeared, Leo," she whispered. "Three days. Not a single word."
I closed my eyes briefly.
I deserved that.
"I wasn't avoiding you," I said. "I was avoiding myself."
Her head tilted, confusion softening her face. "What does that even mean?"
I sighed.
"I've spent years learning how to control everything around me… but I never learned how to control how you make me feel."
A faint, involuntary breath escaped her—almost a gasp.
I stepped closer, but not too close.
Enough for her to feel the sincerity, not the pressure.
"When you're angry with me… when you walk away… when you look at me like this…"
I gestured gently at her guarded expression.
"It makes me feel like I'm losing something I don't know how to live without."
She looked up sharply, like the words stunned her.
"Leo… don't say things like that."
"But they're true."
She shook her head softly, her voice tight.
"You confuse me. One moment you push me away, the next you pull me close. I don't know where I stand."
"You stand," I said, "in the one place I never thought anyone could reach."
Her breath hitched—just slightly—but enough for me to notice.
A heavy silence fell.
Not the angry kind.
Not the cold kind.
A fragile one.
I watched her.
She watched me.
And in that moment, the distance between us felt measured—not in steps—but in unspoken truths.
Finally, she looked away.
"I need time," she whispered.
I nodded.
"I'll wait."
Her eyes lifted, surprised by the simplicity of my answer.
"I'll wait," I repeated gently, "but I won't disappear again. Not unless you tell me to."
For the first time since I walked in, her face softened—just a little. A crack in the wall she built.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Just one word.
But it was enough.
More than enough.