The air between us felt charged—too still, too quiet, too intimate for two people who kept trying to pretend that none of this was real. His forehead hovered close to mine, his breath brushing lightly over my lips, warm and unsteady. He hadn't touched me, not even once, but somehow it felt like he'd already crossed the line he claimed he was afraid of.
"Don't look at me like that…" he whispered, voice strained.
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to fall."
I shook my head gently. "I think you already have."
His eyes opened at that—slowly, almost painfully—and there was no denial in them. Only truth he had tried too long to bury.
He stepped back, but not far, only enough to drag a hand through his hair. "Do you know what you're asking from me?" His voice was deeper, quieter. "Do you have any idea what this would mean?"
"I'm not asking for anything," I said honestly. "I just want you to stop pretending you don't feel this too."
He exhaled, shoulders heavy. "I've tried. Harder than you know."
"I know."
Because I had seen it—every flinch of restraint, every time he looked away too quickly, every moment he wanted me and hated himself for it.
And that was exactly why I stepped closer.
He didn't back away this time.
"I don't want to fight you," I whispered.
His eyes moved slowly over my face—my brows, my eyes, my lips—like he was memorizing them, or maybe reminding himself of every reason he should walk out the door.
"Don't tempt me," he murmured.
"It doesn't take much."
"I'm not tempting you," I said quietly. "I'm being honest."
He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "You think honesty makes this easier? You think hearing that you…feel something for me makes this less dangerous?"
"It makes it real."
"And that's exactly why I should stop."
But he didn't move.
Instead, his fingers curled unconsciously at his sides, as though he was resisting an instinct to reach for me.
"This is wrong," he whispered.
"Then tell me to leave."
His jaw tightened.
"Tell me," I repeated, softer this time.
He didn't.
He couldn't.
The silence that followed was louder than any confession.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't what I expected.
"You're too young," he said, voice cracking slightly.
"You're not too old."
"That's not the point."
I stepped toward him again, until the tips of our shoes almost touched. "Then what is?"
His eyes darkened. "You know what."
"Yes," I said. "I know you're scared."
His breath caught.
Not anger.
Not denial.
Recognition.
"You think I'm scared?" he said, tone low and rough.
"I know you are. You're scared because you care."
He swallowed hard. "You don't understand what this could cost me."
"You think I haven't thought about what it could cost me?"
He shook his head. "It's different. You can walk away. I can't."
"I don't want to walk away."
He closed his eyes again, like that admission hurt more than it should. "You should."
"But I won't."
The moment stretched—long, fragile, unbearably tense.
He opened his eyes slowly, and something shifted in them—like he was finally letting himself feel the thing he'd been suffocating for weeks.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he whispered.
"I'm not doing anything to you. I'm choosing you."
His breath trembled. "You shouldn't."
"Then choose for me," I said softly. "Choose to walk away."
He stared at me like the possibility physically pained him.
"I can't."
The words fell out of him, raw and unguarded.
Something warm unfurled inside me.
Not triumph.
Not victory.
Understanding.
"Then don't," I whispered.
His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. "You're going to ruin me."
"Maybe…" I said softly. "But maybe I'll fix you too."
That made him flinch—like I had reached somewhere too deep.
He took a slow step toward me this time.
His choice.
Not mine.
My heartbeat hammered, loud enough I was sure he could hear it.
He lifted a hand—hesitating inches from my cheek, fingers trembling slightly.
"Can I?" he whispered.
He didn't have to explain.
I knew what he was asking.
I nodded. "Yes."
His knuckles brushed my cheek first, feather-light, as though he was afraid I might break under his touch. Then the side of his hand cupped my jaw, warm and steady.
My breath hitched.
He whispered, "You feel real."
"So do you."
His thumb traced the curve of my cheekbone with a gentleness that didn't match the tension in his body. "I've imagined this too many times."
"Then stop imagining."
His eyes locked with mine—deep, conflicted, wanting.
"Say it," he whispered.
"What?"
"Tell me you want this."
"I do," I breathed. "I want you."
His control cracked.
Not fully.
But enough.
His forehead rested against mine, and he let out a breath that sounded like surrender.
"You're dangerous," he whispered.
"You brought me here," I reminded him.
He laughed under his breath—a soft, broken sound. "Yes. And I knew it was a mistake the moment I texted you."
"Then why did you?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Because all day, I kept thinking about last night…about the way you looked at me. And I realized something."
"What?"
"That I can't stay away from you anymore."
My heart dropped and soared in the same breath.
He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"I won't."
"Please," he said. "I need you to."
"No," I whispered, voice steady.
His fingers slid to the back of my neck—slow, deliberate.
Not pulling me in.
Just holding me there.
"You're going to be the end of me," he murmured.
"Then let me," I breathed.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, trying to pull himself together—but he didn't let go, didn't step away.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Even if this destroys us?"
"I don't think love is supposed to be safe."
His hand tightened slightly, and his lips hovered dangerously close to mine—but still not touching.
"Love," he repeated quietly, voice shaking. "You think this is love?"
"Don't you?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
His silence was an admission.
He leaned in closer—so close that his nose brushed mine—and whispered:
"I'm not supposed to want you like this."
"But you do."
He exhaled, shaking.
"Yes," he said. "God help me, yes."
And then—
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
He froze instantly.
His hand dropped from my neck.
His breath caught.
His body went tense.
"Someone's coming," he whispered.
The spell shattered.
He grabbed my wrist gently—urgent, protective—and pulled me behind the piano, out of sight.
We crouched in the narrow space, breaths shallow, hearts pounding.
The footsteps grew louder.
And in that tiny, hidden space—our bodies close enough to feel each other tremble—I realized something with terrifying clarity:
He wasn't pulling away anymore.
He was holding on.