The evening sky was dimming when she stepped outside the campus building, clutching her bag with both hands. The day had been exhausting—classes, assignments, the stress that came from pretending she was fine when her mind kept drifting to him.
He hadn't contacted her since morning.
Not in a cold way—just… quieter than usual.
And that silence was enough to make her heartbeat trip over itself.
She paused beneath the streetlamp, its warm glow outlining her small frame. Students walked past her in pairs or groups, laughing, chatting, planning dinners or parties. None of that reached her.
Her phone buzzed.
It was him.
"Are you done for the day?"
Just those six words—but her chest loosened instantly.
She typed back quickly.
"Yes. I'm heading out now."
Three dots appeared immediately—his reply coming faster than she expected.
"Wait for me."
She blinked.
He was coming here?
Before she could respond, a familiar black car pulled up to the curb. He stepped out, dressed in a dark coat that seemed to blend perfectly with the night. His presence pulled in the air around him—steady, quiet, unmistakably him.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up.
"Why are you here?" she asked, breathless despite not having run.
He looked at her in that way he always did—calm on the outside, but with something warmer flickering underneath.
"I didn't like the thought of you walking home alone," he said. "And… I wanted to see you."
Her chest tightened.
He moved closer, stopping just a breath away. "Rough day?"
"A little."
He lifted his hand, hesitated for a heartbeat, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me about it."
She followed him into the car. The doors closed with a soft click, cocooning them in quiet. The city lights slid across the windshield as he drove, but his attention kept shifting to her.
She recounted her day—her exhaustion, the pressure she felt, the way she couldn't focus because his silence made her worry.
He listened.
Really listened.
When she finished, he exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For making you feel uncertain."
She looked out the window. "I just… like knowing you're there."
"I am," he said, voice low. "More than you realize."
He pulled over beside a quiet park, the kind with dim lights and empty benches. The world outside was hushed, peaceful. He turned off the engine but didn't move.
Instead, he faced her fully.
"I've been thinking," he began, choosing his words carefully. "About us."
Her fingers tightened around her seatbelt.
"Not in a bad way," he added quickly. "Just… thinking."
She swallowed. "About what exactly?"
He took a breath, steady yet heavy. "What you mean to me. And what I'm allowed to feel."
Her heart pounded.
He continued, voice quieter now. "You're young. You have your whole life ahead of you. I keep telling myself I shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what?" she whispered.
He looked at her then. Really looked.
His eyes held the truth he'd been avoiding.
"Shouldn't want you this much."
Her breath caught.
He leaned back slightly, not breaking her gaze. "But I do. And every day, it gets harder to pretend I don't."
She felt warmth rise from her chest to her cheeks, spreading like wildfire.
"Then… don't pretend," she said softly.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if her words hit the part of him he had guarded the most.
"I'm afraid of crossing the line," he admitted. "I'm afraid of hurting you. Or being someone you regret later."
"You won't," she said instantly.
"You don't know that."
"I know how I feel. And I know it's not changing."
He looked conflicted—torn between restraint and something deeper, something he'd tried to bury.
Then he reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.
His hand brushed against hers.
She didn't pull away.
He intertwined their fingers. His grip was warm, steady, almost desperate in its sincerity.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "Why does it feel like you're the one who's older between us?"
She laughed softly, squeezing his hand. "Because you think too much."
He couldn't help smiling at that—small, but genuine.
They sat there for a long moment, the world outside fading into distant lights, leaving only the two of them in their quiet, fragile closeness.
Finally, he spoke again.
"Let me do this properly," he murmured. "Let me take my time. Not because I'm unsure—but because I want to move toward you the right way."
She nodded.
"I can wait," she whispered. "As long as you're walking toward me."
His thumb brushed her knuckles.
"I am," he said. "I promise I am."
And in the dim glow of the parked car, their hands remained tightly held—no longer unsure, no longer distant.
Just… them.