“I’m just the weird girl with the ferret and the freak brain.” I stare out at the city. “Perfect scientist. Not girlfriend material. Definitely not… whatever professional athletes expect.”
I huff out a breath. “I wish I could just be normal.”
The patio door opens behind me.
I jump, heart spiking, words dying in my throat. Tristan steps out, the mellow light from the living room spilling around him. He’s holding two mugs, steam curling into the night air. He pauses when he sees me, like he’s not sure if I’ll bolt, and then quietly crosses the space between us.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets one mug down beside me and takes the chair next to mine. Close enough that I’m aware of his warmth, but not crowding. Close enough that I don’t feel alone.
“Hot cocoa,” he says gently. “You looked like you could use it.”
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for the heat, the weight, something solid to anchor me.
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Just… there.
Then he speaks again, softer. “You’re not weird, Min.”
I swallow.
“You’re brilliant,” he continues. “And kind. And so good at what you do that it makes me ache.”
Something inside me cracks.
I turn my face away quickly, blinking hard, but he sees anyway. He always sees. His hand lifts, hesitates, then gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch light, asking permission with every movement.
We sit there, breathing the same air, the city glistening far away.
Then he reaches for my hand.
“Can I show you something?” he asks.
I nod, barely.
He places my palm against his chest.
His heart is pounding. Strong. Fast. Alive.
“That’s you,” he says quietly. “You do that to me.”
My breath stutters, fingers curling instinctively into his shirt as the realization settles deep in my bones.
I’m not invisible.
And somehow, that scares me as much as it comforts me.
My hand is still on his chest when he shifts closer, close enough that the heat of him seeps through my sweater. I’m suddenly aware of how quiet the night is. How loud my breathing sounds in my own ears.
He doesn’t rush me. Just watches my face like it’s telling him things I’m not brave enough to say out loud.
“Okay?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, too fast, then swallow. “I mean. Yes.”
His hand closes over mine, big and warm, and he guides it lower. Slow. Careful. The fabric of his shirt gives way to firmer muscle beneath, then the waistband of his pants, the undeniable heat there making my brain short-circuit in a way that feels both alarming and… fascinating.
Oh.
I press my fingers more deliberately, curious despite myself. The change is immediate. Subtle, then not subtle at all. Heat. Hardness. A pulse I can feel under my fingertips.
