The following Monday, class felt heavier than usual. He entered the room with his shoulders squared, expression unreadable. He didn't look at me once—not even in passing.
He was protecting me.
And it hurt anyway.
At the end of the lecture, he packed his things quickly. Too quickly. When I approached him, he stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"Not here," he said quietly.
"Then where? You won't see me anywhere."
"That's the point."
I stared at him, heart sinking. "Are you ending this?"
"There is no 'this.'"
"You know that's not true."
He clenched his jaw, eyes softening for just a fraction of a second. "Please don't do this here."
"Then tell me where."
He hesitated.
And that hesitation was enough.
He cared.
He just didn't know how to show it without consequences.
"After sunset," he whispered. "The old library balcony. No one goes there."
I nodded, trying not to smile, because the pain in his expression made it clear this wasn't happiness—it was surrender.
That evening, the campus was quiet. The balcony smelled faintly of dust and old stone. When he arrived, he kept his distance, hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
"You came," he said.
"You asked me to."
He let out a shaky breath. "I shouldn't have."
But he walked closer anyway.
The sun had dipped below the buildings, leaving only the soft gold of fading daylight. He leaned against the railing, staring at the horizon.
"Do you know what my biggest fear is?" he asked suddenly.
"That you'll get caught?"
"No."
He shook his head slowly.
"That you'll regret me."
"I won't."
"You say that now." His voice trembled faintly. "But what happens when you realize I can't give you normal? I can't hold your hand on campus. I can't take you out for dinner. Everything between us has to be…"
He gestured vaguely.
"Hidden."
"I don't need normal," I said.
"But you deserve it."
We stood there in silence, breaths visible in the cooling air.
He finally looked at me, and something in his expression eased.
"I hate this," he whispered. "I hate wanting you and having to pretend I don't."
"You don't have to pretend right now."
His eyes softened dangerously. "No. I don't."
He took a single step toward me.
Then another.
Until he was close enough that I could feel every breath he exhaled.
"I told myself I'd stay away," he said. "That I'd protect you, even if it meant hurting myself."
"And now?"
"Now…"
His voice dropped.
"I just want to be near you."
I didn't touch him.
He didn't touch me.
But he leaned in—just barely—and rested his forehead against mine.
No rules.
No distance.
No pretending.
Just the truth neither of us could escape anymore.