She stayed close to him for a long moment, her forehead resting lightly against his chest. His heartbeat steadied her, gave her something real to hold onto. Something she didn't want to lose.
He didn't move either, as if breaking the moment would break something more fragile underneath.
Eventually, she spoke.
"You always say the right things."
"That's not true," he murmured. "I just tell you what's real."
"What's real, then?" she asked softly.
He hesitated — not because he didn't know, but because saying certain things out loud carried weight neither of them could take back.
"What's real," he said slowly, "is that every time I tell myself to step back from you… I fail."
She felt her breath catch.
He continued, voice rougher now.
"What's real is that I think about you even when I try not to. I worry when you're upset. I check my phone too often. I stay later than I should. I let you pull me into your world even when I know it'll only get harder to walk away."
He looked down at her, almost frustrated at his own confession.
"And what's real is that I don't want to walk away."
Her fingers curled around his shirt. "Then don't."
"You don't understand," he said quietly. "You're young. You're still discovering who you are. I don't want to be the reason you stop moving forward."
"You're not stopping me," she whispered. "You're the reason I want to move."
He shut his eyes for a moment — like he wasn't prepared for that.
She watched him, suddenly aware of something new:
He wasn't invincible.
He wasn't unshakeable.
He was human.
And she mattered to him more than he could hide.
"Look at me," she said softly.
He opened his eyes.
"I know what I want."
"You think you do."
"I do," she insisted. "And if I make mistakes, they're mine to make. If I choose wrong, that's my choice. But right now… the only thing that feels right is you."
He stared at her like he wanted to believe her — needed to.
But doubt still lingered beneath his calm exterior.
So she went on.
"You keep trying to protect me from you," she said. "But have you ever thought that I might want you exactly the way you are? Your age, your past, your habits, your flaws… all of it."
He swallowed.
"You'll outgrow me someday," he said. It wasn't a threat — more like a fear.
"Then let me be the one to tell you if I do." She reached for his hand. "Don't decide for me."
His fingers tightened around hers instantly, like reflex.
For the first time that night, he looked… shaken.
Not by fear.
By hope.
"You make it very hard to stay reasonable," he murmured.
"That's because you've been reasonable for too long."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And you?"
"I've been waiting for you to stop running."
That did it.
He stepped closer, eliminating the last inch between them, his presence wrapping around her like a quiet storm.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then I'll stop."
"Good," she whispered back. "Because I'm done chasing."
He exhaled — half laugh, half surrender — and rested his forehead against hers again.
The city noise faded.
The night softened.
And for the first time, neither of them were afraid of the truth anymore.
They weren't running.
Not from each other.
Not from what was growing between them.
For the first time, the distance between them wasn't something to fear.
It was something to cross.
Together.