I searched his face. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, softer: “You.”
One word.
It landed like a stone in deep water.
I looked away, toward the lights again. “I’m scared of what I’ll become if I stay.”
“And if you leave?”
I closed my eyes. “I’m scared of that, too.”
Silence stretched between us—thick, humid, full of everything we weren’t saying.
He reached out then, slow, giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
His fingers brushed my cheek, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You don’t have to decide the whole future tonight,” he said. “Just tonight.”
I opened my eyes. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we face whatever comes.”
I swallowed. “Together?”
“If you want.”
I studied him—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the scar along his jaw, the way he held himself like he was always ready for impact but never looking for it.
“I want,” I whispered.
He exhaled once, almost inaudible.
Then he kissed me.
Not like earlier—not desperate, not claiming. Slow. Careful. Like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth, the taste of my fear, the texture of my surrender.
I let him.
My hands found his chest, slid under his shirt, felt the warmth of his skin, the steady beat beneath.
He lifted me without breaking the kiss, carried me to the bedroom like I weighed nothing.
We didn’t speak again.
Clothes came off slowly this time—his shirt, my blouse, his jeans, my leggings. No rush. No urgency. Just quiet intention.
When he laid me down, he didn’t cover me immediately. He stayed above me, braced on his forearms, looking down like he was seeing me for the first time.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. Low. Rough. Honest.
Tears stung again—not from guilt this time, but from something softer, more dangerous.
