Later that evening, I walked home alone.
The city lights were soft, but every step I took echoed louder than the words I hadn't spoken.
I kept thinking about Noah—the way he lingered near my desk, not touching, not overt, but undeniably aware. About Luca, too, who had followed me with his gaze without asking permission.
It struck me: what they didn't say mattered more than what they did.
A single glance. A slight brush of fingers. A shared silence.
Those were the dangerous moments. They carried more weight than any declaration. They invited questions I didn't want to ask out loud.
I reached my apartment, heart still fluttering, and realized I was trembling—not from fear, exactly, but anticipation.
I unlocked the door, stepping inside. The apartment was quiet. Safe. Mine.
And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that soon, it wouldn't be just mine anymore.
Two men. Two silences. And me, teetering between the pull of both.