The rain finally thinned to a faint mist, barely noticeable against the cool night air. The soft glow of the streetlamps bathed the empty park in shades of gold and silver, turning the world muted and still—like it was waiting for the next breath, the next moment, the next quiet confession.
Amelia stayed nestled against Ethan's side, his arm wrapped around her in a way that felt steady rather than overwhelming. She could hear his breaths—slow, deep, grounding. Each one made her feel more and more at ease.
It surprised her, how natural this closeness felt.
"How're you doing?" Ethan murmured softly, his voice low enough not to disturb the calm.
Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.
"Better than I expected."
He smiled a little.
"Good. If anything feels too much… tell me."
"I will," she whispered.
"But nothing feels too much right now."
Her words made Ethan's arm tighten just slightly—only a gentle pull, but enough for her to notice how much her trust meant to him.
"Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.
"Of course."
"When you sit like this… when you hold me… what do you feel?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He turned his head slightly, the warm brush of his breath touching her hair.
"Peace," he said softly.
"And something… deeper."
"Deeper?" she echoed.
He nodded, voice warm.
"Something like… finally being where I want to be."
Amelia swallowed, her heart fluttering in quiet waves.
"That's a lot," she whispered.
"It's the truth."
She let that sink in.
No one had ever spoken to her like that—gently, honestly, without expecting anything in return. She wasn't used to being the center of someone's calm, someone's contentment.
"What do you feel?" he asked, just as gently.
Amelia was quiet for a moment as she tried to find the words.
"I feel… safe," she said slowly.
"And warm. And… steady."
Ethan's breath hitched softly, an unguarded reaction he didn't bother to hide.
"I'm glad," he murmured.
They sat for another quiet moment, the world soft around them.
Then Ethan shifted, turning enough to face her slightly.
"Amelia… may I ask something else?"
She nodded, eyes lifting to his.
"When you leaned against me… was it because you felt comfortable, or because you didn't want to be alone?"
Her gaze softened.
"Both," she whispered.
"But mostly because I wanted you."
Ethan froze—
not from shock,
but from the depth of how much those words meant.
"Amelia…" His voice was barely audible, full of emotion he couldn't hide.
She looked down at their joined hands.
"Does that scare you?"
"No," he said immediately.
"It makes me feel… honored."
She blinked up at him.
"Honored?"
He nodded.
"Because you're choosing closeness. And you're choosing it with me."
Amelia felt something warm bloom quietly inside her chest.
"Ethan…" She hesitated.
"Is this… okay? Sitting like this? Being this close?"
His answer was gentle, steady, and full of affection.
"It's perfect," he murmured.
"As long as you're comfortable, I'm exactly where I want to be."
Her breath fluttered.
"Can I stay like this a little longer?" she whispered.
"You can stay like this as long as you want."
So she leaned back into him, head resting on his shoulder, their fingers intertwined. Ethan held her with the same soft care he'd always shown—steady, patient, warm.
"Do you ever think about tomorrow?" she asked quietly.
"Only in the sense that I hope it brings me closer to you."
Her heart tightened with a warmth she couldn't describe.
"I don't want this to be something that ends when we stand up from this bench," she whispered.
Ethan turned slightly, enough that his forehead nearly brushed her temple.
"It won't," he said gently.
"Not unless you want it to."
"I don't," she said, voice trembling with honesty.
"I want this. And… I want more days like this."
Ethan exhaled, deep and full of something tender.
"Then we'll have more days," he whispered.
"Many more."
Amelia pressed closer, letting her body relax fully against him for the first time.
Ethan held her.
And in the soft night, under the faint misting rain,
she finally let herself believe that something gentle and beautiful was growing between them—
something that didn't need to be rushed
or forced
or doubted.
Just felt.