The willow branches swayed softly above them, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the grass. Amelia remained nestled against Ethan's chest for a while, listening to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat. It calmed her, grounded her, made her feel anchored in a way she had never felt before.
Eventually, she shifted, slowly sitting upright. Ethan immediately loosened his hold, giving her room without breaking the connection. His hand stayed at her side, steady, warm.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low with concern.
"Yes," she said softly.
"I just… needed to breathe."
Ethan nodded.
"You don't ever have to explain. I'll always give you space."
She smiled faintly.
"That's why I don't feel like running."
Ethan exhaled softly, the sound almost relieved.
"Good."
Amelia tucked one leg beneath her, turning slightly to face him.
The air felt full—quiet, but thick with something tender.
She brushed her fingers over the fabric of his shirt, barely grazing him.
"I don't understand this feeling," she whispered.
Ethan's eyes softened.
"What feeling?"
"This… warmth. This calm. This… wanting."
Her voice trembled.
"I'm not used to wanting someone this close."
Ethan moved his hand slowly to her shoulder, his touch light enough to pull back at the slightest tension.
"You can want without rushing," he murmured.
She swallowed.
"I think I do want. Even when I'm scared."
Ethan leaned in slightly, his forehead almost touching hers.
"You can be scared."
Then, softer:
"Just don't hide from me."
Amelia's breath caught.
"I'm trying not to," she whispered.
"You're doing it beautifully," he whispered back.
The words filled her chest with a gentle ache.
After a moment, she spoke again, voice quieter.
"Ethan… I don't want you to think I'm fragile."
He lifted her chin gently with two fingers.
"I don't," he said.
"I think you're strong. But even strong people need softness. They need somewhere to rest."
Amelia blinked slowly, her eyes warming.
"And you want to be that for me?"
His answer was immediate.
"Yes," he said.
"Let me be that."
Her pulse fluttered.
She moved closer—just a little—and rested her palm on his chest.
This time, Ethan's breath hitched openly.
"You're warm," she murmured.
"So are you," he whispered back.
They stayed like that—her hand on his chest, his hand cupping her shoulder—while the leaves rustled softly above them.
Then Amelia asked quietly:
"Do you ever feel like you're afraid to hope?"
Ethan looked at her with an expression so raw she felt it like a weight.
"All the time," he admitted softly.
"But with you… I'm learning to hope again."
Her heart tightened.
He continued, voice low and honest:
"You make me want things.
Real things.
Emotional things.
Things I didn't think I'd have again."
Amelia lowered her eyes, overwhelmed in the sweetest way.
"And you?" Ethan asked gently.
"What do you want?"
Her answer was barely a whisper.
"You."
Ethan closed his eyes as if the word reached somewhere deep.
Amelia continued, voice trembling:
"But slow. Soft. One step at a time."
He nodded, his forehead lowering to touch hers.
"I'll take every step with you," he murmured.
"Slow is perfect."
Her fingers curled softly at the front of his shirt.
"What if I fall?"
"I'll be there," he said.
"Every time."
Amelia let out a shaky breath.
"I believe you," she whispered.
Ethan brushed his nose softly against her temple in the lightest, most tender movement.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For trusting me."
She leaned into him again, her hand still resting on his chest, her breath mixing with his.
"I'm learning," she said softly.
"And I'm here for all of it," Ethan whispered.
There was no rush.
No urgency.
Just a deepening closeness—slow as morning light, soft as the willow's sway.
They stayed in each other's warmth, letting the moment sink quietly into their hearts.
And for the first time since her feelings began to grow, Amelia didn't wonder if she was doing too much.
She wondered how much more her heart could open.