They stayed beneath the willow tree for a while longer, wrapped in that quiet, gentle space that seemed to belong only to them. Amelia breathed in slowly, letting the calm settle deeper inside her. She didn't want to rush away from it—not the safety, not the warmth, not the way Ethan held her without taking more than she offered.
Eventually, Amelia shifted slightly, just enough to lift her head from his shoulder. Ethan's arm loosened automatically to give her space, but his hand lingered at her back—light, steady, present.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
"I just… needed to look at you."
The confession made Ethan inhale softly, his chest rising in a slow, surprised breath.
"Amelia," he whispered, "you have no idea what that does to me."
She looked down, shy but honest.
"It feels strange. Wanting to look at someone."
Ethan tilted his head.
"Why strange?"
"Because I never want to," she admitted.
"It's easier to stay guarded. Easier to stay distant. But with you…"
She swallowed.
"I want to see you. I want to understand you."
Ethan brushed a fingertip softly across her wrist.
"And I want you to see me," he murmured.
"All of me. Slowly. At your pace."
A gentle silence settled over them, broken only by the rustling willow leaves.
Amelia drew in a breath.
"Can I ask you something more personal?"
"Anything," Ethan said immediately.
"What do you need?" she whispered.
"Not from me—just in general. What makes you feel cared for?"
His expression softened.
No one had ever asked him that before. She could see it in his eyes.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"I need honesty," he said quietly.
"Not perfection. Not pretending. Just honesty."
She nodded, listening closely.
"I need someone who wants to be close," he added, his voice softening.
"Someone who leans in even a little."
Amelia felt her heartbeat shift.
"Like this?" she asked, moving an inch closer—tentative but brave.
Ethan's breath caught.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Exactly like that."
She bit her lip lightly.
"What else?"
"I need gentleness," he admitted.
"Not softness all the time, but… emotional gentleness. Someone who knows how to hold things carefully."
Amelia looked up at him, eyes warm.
"I can try."
"You already are," Ethan murmured.
She swallowed, a shy warmth blooming inside her.
"And you?" Ethan asked gently.
"What do you need?"
Amelia hesitated.
But he waited—quiet, patient, open.
"I need patience," she finally whispered.
"And safety. And someone who won't get tired when I get quiet. Or scared. Or confused."
"I won't," Ethan said immediately.
"You say that now," she breathed softly.
"I say it because it's the truth," he said, moving just a little closer.
"I don't get tired of caring."
Her chest warmed, tightened, softened all at once.
"And…" she added quietly, "…I need someone who won't disappear when things get real."
Ethan's jaws tensed—just slightly, in a protective way.
"I'm not disappearing," he said firmly, but gently.
"Not now. Not later. Not when things get deeper."
Amelia looked down at her hands.
"I'm terrified of that."
"I know," he whispered.
"And that's exactly why I'm not leaving."
She closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of his words.
When she opened them again, she reached for his hand—slowly, deliberately—and intertwined their fingers.
Ethan stilled for a beat, then exhaled shakily.
"Amelia…" he murmured, "you're going to undo me."
She smiled softly.
"I'm trying."
He chuckled under his breath.
"Please don't stop."
They sat like that, fingers intertwined, the quiet garden holding them gently.
After a moment, Amelia spoke again—so softly he almost missed it.
"Ethan?"
"Yes?"
"Can I lean on you again?"
His expression melted into something warm and deeply affectionate.
"You never have to ask," he whispered.
"But thank you for asking."
He opened his arms slightly, giving her the choice.
Amelia didn't hesitate this time.
She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest as his arms wrapped around her again—warm, secure, protective.
Ethan closed his eyes, breathing her in.
"Amelia," he whispered into her hair,
"you fit right here."
She smiled softly against him.
"And you feel like… safety," she murmured.
He held her closer—not tightly, just enough to let her feel his steady presence.
For a long, quiet moment, they stayed like that—two hearts slowly aligning, two souls learning each other gently.
And Amelia realized something with quiet certainty:
She wasn't falling alone.
He was falling with her.
Step by step.
Soft, slow, and real.