My heart immediately hurts with that sharp ache that comes from wanting something too much. Afraid I might be mistaken. Afraid I'll have to survive the crushing disappointment of false hope.
Slowly, so slowly it feels like moving through water, I turn around.
Artan.
Relief floods through me so powerfully my knees go weak. Elation that makes my chest expand and my breath catch. Then immediately, before I can fully process the joy, I notice the details that temper it.
The dark circles under his eyes, purple-gray shadows that speak of sleepless nights. The strain in his face, tension pulling at the corners of his mouth and eyes. The way he's holding himself, shoulders tight with exhaustion.
Is he suffering too? Does he hurt the way I hurt? Does he lie awake at night thinking about me the way I lie awake thinking about him?
"Lily," he repeats. The word comes out different this time. Softer. Almost like a prayer. Like my name is something sacredhe's been forbidden to speak and is now finally allowed to voice again.
He takes a step closer. Just one. Careful not to invade my space but closing the distance enough that I can smell him. That cologne I remember, woodsy and clean. That scent that's uniquely him underneath it.
We're almost touching. Our breath mingles in the small space between us. Our hands hang at our sides, inches apart, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Get back to work! Those shelves aren't going to stock themselves!"
Mr. Hamilton's voice shatters the moment like glass breaking. Harsh and intrusive and completely oblivious to what he's interrupting.
Artan's jaw clenches immediately. I see the muscle jump beneath his skin. See the effort it takes him to restrain whatever instinct is rising in him. To not turn and respond to the disrespect in my boss's tone with the kind of violence I know he's capable of.
But he controls it. Holds himself still through visible force of will.
"I don't mean to disturb you at work," Artan says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "But I have a request. Something I need to ask you."
He pauses. Swallows hard enough that I can see his throat work.
"We want to talk to you. All of us. Would you meet with us? For a conversation? Just a conversation..."
"I don't know if that's a good idea," I start to answer. The words come out uncertain, hesitant, because I genuinely don't know. Don't know if seeing them again would help or hurt. Don't know if I'm strong enough to face all three of them at once.
Artan raises his hand in a gentle wait motion. Not commanding. Just asking for a moment more. He reaches into his coat with careful movements, like he's afraid of startling me. Pulls out his wallet, well-worn leather that's been shaped by years in his pocket. Takes out a piece of paper that's been folded carefully into quarters, the creases white and soft from repeated handling.
"When I read this, it was the first time I knew you were in my world," Artan says. His voice is rough now, emotion making it unsteady. "I didn't understand why it felt so significant at the time. I went to Luan's apartment to check on him. Found banana bread on the counter, with this note tucked beside it."
He unfolds it carefully, reverently even, like it's something precious instead of just paper and ink. Shows me.
My handwriting. Looped and slightly messy. "Hope you enjoy the bread. Welcome home."
Words I'd written without thinking. Just a friendly gesture. Nothing profound or romantic or loaded with meaning.
But looking at it now, seeing how carefully he's preserved it, I realize it meant something to him.
"I had the notion then that my life was about to change," Artan continues. His dark eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity. "So I kept it. Carried it with me. Like a talisman or a promise or just proof that you existed and weren't something I'd imagined."
He pauses. Takes a breath that makes his chest expand.
"That's how I feel about you now. Like you're my home. The place I return to. The thing that makes everything else make sense." His voice drops even lower, becomes almost intimate despite the fluorescent lights and the smell of produce and the distant beep of scanners. "Dashuria ime.My love. I love you."
The words hit me like a physical thing. Like something solid and undeniable that I can't pretend didn't happen or didn't matter.
I open my mouth to respond. To say what, I don't know. Maybe that I love him too. Maybe that loving him isn't enough. Maybe nothing at all because words feel inadequate for what I'm feeling.
"Please don't say anything yet," Artan says quickly, urgently, before I can form whatever response was trying to emerge. He takes my hand in his, the contact electric and achingly familiar. His grip is warm, firm but gentle, his calluses rough against my palm. "I'm not saying I love you to force you into something you don't want. I'm not trying to manipulate or pressure or make you feel obligated."
He squeezes my hand once.
