I stared at the message for a full minute before I could move. We need to talk. It wasn't an invitation. It wasn't a casual check-in. It was something weightier, something that felt like a line being drawn. Or erased. I typed back slowly, afraid my hands would shake enough for me to misspell something.
Me: Yes. What time?
His reply came instantly.
Him: 7. Same place.
Same place. His apartment. My stomach twisted—not in fear, but in anticipation so sharp it almost hurt.
The day dragged, every class blurring together. I couldn't focus on anything; my notes might as well have been blank pages. Every time I blinked, I saw the look he gave me last night—half longing, half panic. As if he had already committed a sin simply by wanting me. And as if he wanted to do it again.
By the time I stood outside his apartment door that evening, my pulse was pounding in my ears. I knocked once. The door opened almost immediately, like he'd been waiting behind it. He looked tired—no, not tired. Strained. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly messed as if he had run his hands through it too many times. He stepped back silently, letting me in. I took off my shoes, the air thick between us.
He didn't offer tea. He didn't ask how my day was. He just looked at me for a long moment before speaking quietly.
"You left too fast yesterday."
"I thought staying would make things worse," I answered.
His jaw flexed. "It wouldn't have."
That surprised me. "You hesitated."
"I always hesitate," he said, voice rougher than usual. "That doesn't mean I don't know what I want."
My breath caught. "Then what do you want?"
He didn't move at first. He just closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was fighting himself again—like he always did. When he opened them, the struggle was still there, but something else had finally pushed its way to the surface. Something unguarded. Dangerous.
"You," he said. "That's the problem."
The words hit me hard enough that I had to grip the back of a chair to steady myself.
He continued, voice low. "I've tried to keep distance. I thought it was the responsible thing to do. You're young, and I'm—"
"Mature," I whispered.
"Too mature," he corrected with a strained half-laugh. "But every time you look at me like that, I lose another piece of my restraint."
My heart was hammering. "Then stop pretending."
He inhaled sharply. "You don't understand what you're asking."
"I do."
He took a slow step toward me. "If I stop pretending… I won't be able to go back."
The air tightened around us as he reached up—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered at the curve of my jaw, barely touching but warm enough to make my knees weak.
He whispered, "Tell me to stop."
I didn't.
I couldn't.
Instead, I whispered, "I won't."
His breath hitched. For the first time since I met him, he stopped pretending altogether. His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me just close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath against my lips, but not close enough to touch. Not yet.
"You are going to ruin me," he murmured.
"Maybe," I said softly. "But you're ruining me too."
His eyes closed, and for one suspended moment, everything was quiet—every doubt, every hesitation, every line we weren't supposed to cross.
When he opened them, something had undeniably changed.
And he didn't step back.