The soft glow of the afternoon began to fade, leaving Ethan's living room in a warm, amber hush. Amelia stayed nestled against him, feeling the quiet comfort of his arms around her. She could hear the steady pulse beneath his jaw each time she shifted, could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breathing against her cheek.
For once, her mind wasn't racing.
Everything felt… still.
After a few minutes, Amelia lifted her head slightly, looking up at him with soft, searching eyes.
"You're very patient," she murmured.
Ethan smiled gently.
"I like being patient with you."
She blinked, absorbing the warmth of that simple truth.
"Most people don't wait for me to be ready," she said quietly.
"I'm not most people," Ethan answered again—soft, steady, sure.
Her lips curved in the faintest smile.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it matters," he said.
"I want you to know the difference."
Amelia studied his face—the gentle sincerity in his eyes, the quiet determination in his expression, the soft way he watched her like she was something that mattered.
"Ethan… can I ask something personal?" she whispered.
His voice softened instantly.
"Yes."
"When you're holding me like this… what does it mean to you?"
Ethan didn't answer right away.
Not because he didn't know—but because he was choosing his words with care.
"It means," he said slowly, "that I get to be close to someone I care about deeply."
His fingers brushed softly down her arm.
"It means you trust me. And that's something I don't take lightly."
Amelia looked down, her fingers curling gently into his shirt.
"It feels… safe," she whispered.
"I want that for you," Ethan replied.
She took a slow breath.
"You're gentle in ways I didn't know I needed."
Ethan swallowed softly—just enough that she noticed.
"I'm gentle because I see how much strength you carry," he murmured.
"And I want to be a place where you don't have to carry all of it."
Her breath caught, the words hitting a part of her that had been tight for years.
"That's… a lot to offer," she whispered.
"You're worth offering it to," he said.
Amelia felt her chest bloom with warmth.
She looked around his apartment again—the soft light, the quiet stillness, the sense of privacy that didn't feel heavy or demanding.
"What made you invite me here?" she asked softly.
Ethan breathed in slowly and exhaled.
"Because I wanted you to see where I feel most at ease. I wanted you to know the parts of my life that aren't public."
His thumb brushed her wrist.
"And because I wanted you to have a space where you could feel safe with me."
Amelia swallowed.
"You do realize how rare that is, right?"
Ethan nodded.
"I do. And that's why I'm careful."
A beat of silence passed—soft, intimate.
Then Amelia asked, almost shyly:
"Do you want me here… past today?"
Ethan's breath faltered for a moment.
Then he lifted a hand and brushed it softly along her jaw.
"Yes," he whispered.
"I want you here as often as you feel comfortable. I want moments like this. I want time with you. No rush. No expectations. Just… more."
Her cheeks warmed at the honesty in his voice.
"I want more too," she admitted softly.
"Even if I'm figuring it out as I go."
Ethan smiled—small, warm, deeply sincere.
"That's all I want," he said.
"For us to figure it out together."
She leaned her forehead lightly against his chin, her breath mixing gently with his.
"Ethan…" she whispered.
"Hm?"
"I think I'm starting to open up more than I meant to."
"And I think," he said softly, "that's the most beautiful thing you could do."
Her heart fluttered—soft, shy, warm.
She lowered her head again, resting fully against him.
"Can we stay like this… a little longer?" she murmured.
Ethan wrapped his arms around her with slow, reassuring warmth.
"As long as you want," he whispered.
She closed her eyes, letting herself settle into the steady comfort of him.
And as she rested in Ethan's quiet embrace, Amelia realized:
She was no longer just leaning into his warmth.
She was letting herself believe he might be someone she could truly trust.
And Ethan held her like a man who already knew he wasn't letting this connection fade.