The rest of the morning passed in the kind of silence that wasn't awkward, but heavy with everything unsaid. She moved around the room slowly, still feeling the warmth of his hand lingering on hers.
He stood near the window, watching her quietly.
Or rather—watching her with the kind of attention that made her heart skip every few seconds.
Finally, he spoke.
"You should eat something."
She blinked. "You'll cook?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"You think I can't?"
"Yes," she said honestly.
He let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh.
"Stay here. I'll make something simple."
But when he turned toward the kitchen, she followed him without thinking.
"…I said stay," he said, glancing back.
"I know. I just don't want to be alone."
He paused.
Only for a second.
Then he opened his palm—subtle, almost reluctant—but enough for her to slip her hand into it.
He didn't comment.
But he didn't let go either.
—
In the kitchen, he moved confidently, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked far too calm for someone struggling internally. She sat on the counter, watching his every little movement.
"Don't stare," he muttered without looking up.
"Why not?"
"You'll make me nervous."
It was the first time he had ever admitted that.
Her smile warmed.
"You're not usually nervous around me."
"I am," he corrected quietly. "You just don't see it."
She swung her legs gently.
"What makes you nervous?"
"You," he said simply.
The honesty made her heart flip.
"Because I'm young?"
"No. Because you're fearless."
He set a plate in front of her. "And I'm not."
She fell silent.
He leaned against the counter beside her, arms crossed—not in a defensive way, but like he needed to keep them occupied, otherwise he'd pull her into his arms again.
"You make everything complicated," he said.
"Is that bad?"
"No." A beat. "It's just new."
She looked at him carefully.
"Are you still scared?"
"…Yes."
"Of me?"
"No." He turned his head, meeting her gaze.
"I'm scared of what you make me want."
Her pulse jumped.
"And what do I make you want?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached out, brushing his thumb gently along her jaw.
A touch soft enough to be innocent, but charged enough to make her breath hitch.
"You know what," he murmured.
She leaned in, just a little.
"And if I want the same thing?"
His eyes darkened—but not with anger.
With surrender.
"Then I'll need time," he said quietly.
"Because once I cross that line, I won't be able to go back."
She touched his wrist.
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
His expression softened—fully, vulnerably—for the first time.
"Good," he whispered.
"Because I don't want you to."
Slowly, as if pulled by something inevitable, he moved closer.
Their foreheads touched—gentler, slower, deeper than any kiss.
A promise.
A warning.
A beginning.
"Trouble," he murmured, exhaling against her skin.
"You're nothing but trouble."
She smiled.
"And you still want me?"
He let out a breath—half laugh, half surrender.
"I think," he whispered, "I'm starting to want you too much."
And for the first time, he didn't hide it.
He didn't pull away.
He didn't pretend it was something else.
He simply stayed.
Right there with her.
Where trouble finally felt like home.