For a long moment, neither of us spoke. His forehead still rested against mine, breaths mingling in the warm space between us. Everything felt heightened—his closeness, his warmth, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. It was as if the world outside his apartment no longer existed. Only this moment did.
He lifted his head slightly, eyes searching mine with a depth that sent a shiver through me. This was the look of a man who had surrendered something he'd been holding onto tightly. Something he couldn't take back.
"Tell me why you're here," he said quietly. "And don't lie."
I didn't look away. "Because I want you to stop pushing me away."
He inhaled sharply, his expression tightening—not with anger, but with an ache so real I felt it in my own chest.
"You deserve someone who isn't… complicated," he said.
"So do you," I whispered. "But here we are."
His lips twitched—something like amusement mixed with something darker, deeper. "You don't make this easy."
"I'm not trying to."
"I know," he murmured, his voice dropping. "That's the problem."
He reached out, brushing his fingers against my waist, barely touching, as if asking permission he didn't voice aloud. I leaned into the touch anyway. His breath hitched. That small reaction was enough to undo me completely.
He guided me to sit on the edge of the sofa. Not forcefully—never forcefully. Just a gentle pressure, careful and deliberate, as if afraid I might pull away. He sat beside me, not too close, but close enough that his knee touched mine. A single point of contact, yet it felt like crossing an invisible line.
He spoke first. "Last night, when you walked away… I almost called you back."
My heart jumped. "Why didn't you?"
"Because if you turned around," he said slowly, "I wouldn't have let you leave."
A warmth spread through me like a quiet flame. "And tonight?"
"Tonight," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "you came back on your own."
His hand found mine, tentative at first, then certain when I didn't pull away. Our fingers intertwined, an intimacy that felt far more dangerous than anything else we could have done.
"Your hands are cold," he murmured.
"Warm them for me."
He gave me a look—half warning, half surrender. "You really don't understand how close I am to losing control, do you?"
"I think you're doing fine."
His breath caught, and he shook his head slightly, laughing under it. "You have no idea."
He tugged me closer—not harshly, just firmly enough that I felt the sincerity in the gesture. His shoulder brushed mine, then his arm settled around my back, drawing me into his side. The world felt smaller suddenly. Safer. Warmer.
"This shouldn't be happening," he whispered into my hair.
"But it is," I said softly.
"And I—" He paused, the words trembling before they left his mouth. "I don't want it to stop."
The confession settled between us like a secret finally spoken aloud. I tilted my head, letting it rest lightly against his shoulder. He stiffened, then relaxed, as if the simple weight of me there was both overwhelming and grounding.
His fingers traced slow circles on my arm—absentminded, gentle, unbearably intimate. "Tell me if I'm crossing a line," he said.
"You're not," I breathed.
"And if I do?"
"I'll let you know."
His voice dropped to a low murmur. "Good. Because I don't trust myself to see the line anymore."
I turned my face toward him, and for a moment, our noses brushed again—by accident or fate, I didn't know. His eyes darkened, focus flicking briefly to my lips before he forced himself to look away.
"I need a moment," he whispered, voice coarse with restraint.
"To think?"
"To breathe."
But he didn't move away. He stayed exactly where he was, his arm still around me, our fingers still intertwined. And that, more than anything he could have done, told me we had crossed a line neither of us intended to return from.
That evening, he didn't pretend.
And neither did I.