Amelia closed the door quietly behind her, leaning against it for a moment as her breath finally steadied. The soft click of the lock echoed through her apartment, but the warmth she carried from Ethan's presence lingered—settled deep in her chest like a slow, calming heartbeat.
She pressed her fingertips lightly to her lips, then to her chest, feeling the flutter still there.
Tonight had been… more than she expected.
More tender.
More honest.
More real.
She walked slowly into her living room, each step light, almost floating. She hadn't felt this way in a long, long time—maybe ever. The apartment was dim, quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath her.
Her coat slipped off her shoulders, still smelling faintly of Ethan—cedar, clean warmth, a hint of something deep and comforting. She held it for a moment longer than necessary before draping it gently over the back of a chair.
Her hands trembled again, not with fear but with the weight of everything she felt.
She sat on the edge of her sofa, knees drawing together, and whispered softly to the empty room:
"What is happening to me?"
But she already knew.
Ethan was happening.
His warmth.
His patience.
The way he looked at her like she mattered.
The way he listened like every word she said held weight.
And the way he touched her—
careful, steady, inviting her to choose the pace.
She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.
It wasn't overwhelming.
It wasn't frightening.
It was… new.
Beautiful.
A little terrifying in a soft way.
She lifted her head slowly, staring at her hands.
She'd held his.
She'd walked beside him, letting herself lean into him.
She'd let him touch her.
She'd touched him back.
And he didn't pull away.
He stayed.
He met her halfway every time.
Amelia's heart warmed as she whispered to herself:
"He kept his promise."
Ethan had said he would stay until she was inside. She had peeked through the small gap in her curtains after entering, and he was still there—standing under the streetlamp, watching her door with patient warmth until she disappeared from sight.
She hadn't told him she saw that.
But she had.
And it made her heart feel something soft and fragile.
A knock on her emotional walls.
A gentle "Let me in."
Amelia stood and walked toward her bedroom, pausing at the mirror on the hallway wall. She stared at her reflection—cheeks faintly pink, eyes glowing with something tender.
"I looked happy," she whispered.
And she was.
Truly, quietly, deeply happy.
She touched her cheek where Ethan's fingertips had brushed earlier. The warmth still lingered, or maybe it was her imagination. But it felt real enough.
As she changed into her night clothes, she couldn't help replaying every moment—the soft candlelight in the bistro, the way he'd walked beside her, the warmth of his arms when she stepped close, the way he whispered her name like it meant something.
When she finally crawled into bed, she curled under the covers and stared at the ceiling.
"I want to see him again," she whispered.
Her heart fluttered.
Not with panic this time, but with expectation.
She turned slightly, pulling the blanket closer as her thoughts softened into a quiet smile.
Would he message her tomorrow?
Would he drop by the shop?
Would he still look at her with those warm, steady eyes?
She closed her eyes.
"I hope so."
And as she drifted slowly toward sleep, the last thing she felt was the memory of his hand in hers—
warm, steady,
and gently pulling her heart closer to something she never expected:
Something like love.