Elena's POV
Have you ever had a night that feels too quiet to be real?
The kind of quiet that hums, the kind that makes your heart beat too loudly in your own ears?
That's what it was like that night.
The office had emptied hours ago. Only a few lights stayed on — one in my corner, one in his. I was finishing up some reports, trying to ignore the sound of his voice in the next room, deep and calm as he spoke on a call.
It was late. Too late. And when I finally closed my laptop, my body felt heavy — but my mind, my heart, refused to rest.
I walked out to the terrace just to breathe.
The city stretched below — all lights and motion and life — and for a second, I felt small, invisible.
Then I heard his footsteps.
Even before I turned, I knew.
I always know when he's near. It's like the air itself changes.
"Still here?" His voice came low behind me.
I smiled faintly, keeping my eyes on the skyline. "I could say the same to you."
He came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him even though he didn't touch me.
"It's late," he said softly. "You should've gone home hours ago."
"So should you," I murmured, glancing up at him. The city lights caught on his features — the sharp jaw, the focused eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
He looked… tired. But beautiful in that way people do when they stop pretending.
For a moment, we just stood there — silent, watching the lights blink like stars fallen into the streets below.
"Do you like New York?" he asked suddenly.
I turned to him, surprised by the softness in his tone. "It's different. Loud. Fast. Sometimes I feel like it's swallowing me whole."
He nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. "It does that. But you'll learn to make it listen to you."
I smiled a little. "I doubt that."
He looked at me then. Really looked.
And something in my chest skipped.
"You'd be surprised what you're capable of, Elena."
There it was again — the way he said my name. Quiet. Certain. As if it already belonged to him.
The wind blew harder, sweeping strands of hair across my face. I moved to tuck them behind my ear, but before I could, his hand reached out — slow, deliberate — and did it for me.
Just that small touch.
But it set my skin on fire.
His fingers brushed against my cheek, lingered a moment too long.
Neither of us moved.
I could feel his breath, warm against my skin.
My heart was a drum, wild and loud in my chest.
He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
Because in that silence — in that single breath between us — everything was said.
Every unsaid thought, every unspoken longing, every quiet don't go that lived between us since the day we met.
Then his hand moved — slowly, carefully — down to my waist.
It wasn't forceful. It wasn't planned. It was instinct.
His palm rested there, firm and steady, as if he was grounding me to this moment.
The city lights blurred below us. The sound of cars and sirens faded.
All I could feel was his hand — his warmth — his quiet claim.
I should have stepped back. I didn't.
Because in that moment, nothing about it felt wrong.
It felt inevitable.
He leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper near my ear.
"You drive me insane, you know that?"
My breath caught. "I—I didn't mean to."
"I know." His thumb brushed over the fabric at my waist, almost absently. "That's what makes it worse."
I turned to look at him then — really look. And for the first time, I saw it clearly.
The emotion he hides so well. The softness behind all that control.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But words would've ruined it.
So we just stood there — his hand still on my waist, my pulse in chaos — letting the silence speak for us.
After a moment, he exhaled deeply, stepping back as if it physically hurt him to do so.
"Go home, Elena," he said gently, eyes lingering on my lips for a fraction too long.
I nodded, even though leaving was the last thing I wanted.
As I walked away, I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel him there —
his hand on my waist,
his breath near my ear,
his voice whispering words he wasn't supposed to say.
And that's how I knew — no matter how much we both pretended otherwise —
something between us had changed forever.