The evening air felt strangely heavier than usual, as if the world sensed something shifting between them. She waited in the quiet hallway of his apartment, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the strap of her bag.
He opened the door before she could knock.
His eyes softened immediately. "You're here."
"I said I would come."
She stepped inside, the familiar warmth of his home wrapping around her like the embrace he was still too careful to give openly.
He watched her quietly for a moment, as if memorizing her—every expression, every nervous habit. Then he spoke.
"You've been distant today."
She looked away. "…You didn't reply to my message."
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "I was in a meeting."
"I know," she mumbled, "but usually you still respond."
That truth lingered between them.
And he understood—she wasn't angry, she was scared. Scared of being forgotten. Scared of being too small in his world.
He closed the space between them, gently lifting her chin with his fingers.
"Look at me."
She did.
"I'm not going anywhere. Not because of a busy day. Not because of anything."
"But you seemed… tired of me," she whispered.
His breath hitched—a rare slip in his composure.
"Tired?" He shook his head slowly. "You don't know how wrong you are."
He let his thumb brush her cheek, the touch warm enough to send a tremor down her spine.
"You're the only thing that makes the rest of my day bearable."
Her eyes widened, the words hitting her harder than he expected.
Then, quieter than a confession but deeper than any promise, he murmured:
"I don't ever get tired of you."
Something unspoken, dangerous, beautiful moved between them.
And for the first time today, she felt her heartbeat settle.
But neither of them realized tonight would change more than emotions—
it would change everything.