The morning slowly deepened, sunlight warming the room in soft layers. She thought he would eventually pull away—return to his usual restraint, his guarded distance. But he didn't.
He stayed close.
Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his chest, close enough to know he was fighting something inside himself.
After a long moment, he finally spoke.
"You should rest a bit more. You barely slept."
"I slept."
Her voice was muffled against his shirt.
"You slept on and off," he corrected. "You turned over every few minutes."
She looked up, almost embarrassed.
"…You watched me?"
There was a heartbeat of silence before he admitted, quietly, "Yes."
He didn't try to hide it.
He didn't even look away.
And the honesty of it hit her harder than sweet words ever could.
She reached up and touched the sleeve of his shirt, gripping it lightly.
"Then… why did you sit so far when I woke up?"
He hesitated.
Not because he didn't know the answer—
but because saying it out loud would reveal too much.
Finally, he sighed.
"I thought you needed space."
"I don't," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, defeated by how easily she could disarm him.
"You say that now. But last night—"
"I was scared," she cut in. "Not angry."
He opened his eyes again, and this time, the vulnerability was unmistakable.
"…Scared of me?"
"No."
She shook her head quickly.
"Scared of losing you."
His breath caught—just slightly—but enough for her to feel it.
His hand slid to the back of her head, pulling her forehead back against his chest.
"You're not losing me," he murmured. "Not even close."
They stayed like that—quiet, breathing together, hearts syncing in a painfully intimate rhythm.
But when he finally released her, something shifted.
He became silent. Not cold, not distant—just thoughtful, as if weighing something heavy in his mind.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked softly.
He looked at her, and for a moment she saw everything he wasn't saying.
The hesitation.
The want.
The fear of crossing a line he had been guarding for too long.
"…You're getting older," he finally said, almost to himself.
"Your world is expanding. Mine stopped expanding years ago."
She frowned.
"Why does that matter?"
"It matters because…" He exhaled slowly. "Because you'll meet people your age. People who can offer you things I can't."
Her chest tightened.
"So you're pushing me away again?"
He closed the distance instantly.
"I'm not pushing you away," he said firmly. "I'm trying not to be selfish."
"But you are selfish," she shot back, eyes stinging.
"Because you stay. Because you care. Because you hold me like this and then pretend you don't want anything."
His expression froze.
Not offended—
but exposed.
She took a small breath.
"I don't want someone else. I want you."
He swallowed, throat visibly tense.
"You shouldn't."
"But I do."
His resolve cracked visibly.
He looked at her like she was something he shouldn't touch but couldn't let go of.
"You're too young," he murmured.
"I'm old enough to love someone," she countered.
He shook his head slightly, struggling.
"You don't even know what that means yet."
"Yes I do." Her voice didn't waver. "It means wanting them even when it's inconvenient. Even when it hurts. Even when they make everything complicated."
Silence.
Heavy. Charged. Unavoidable.
She reached for his hand.
He didn't pull away this time.
"Don't tell me what I should feel," she whispered.
"Let me choose you."
His breath trembled.
Just barely.
But she felt it in his fingers.
Finally—slowly—he intertwined their hands.
A gesture small enough to be innocent, yet intimate enough to shatter every boundary he had set.
He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a long, conflicted kiss against her knuckles.
"I'm trying," he whispered.
"I'm trying not to want more."
She leaned into him, heart pounding.
"What if I want more?"
He looked at her like she was the one thing he couldn't resist.
"Then," he said quietly, "we're both in trouble."