He poured her a glass of warm water, the small gesture grounding her more than any dramatic declaration.
"Sit," he said gently. "Tell me what's really bothering you."
She hesitated before sinking onto the couch.
He sat beside her—not too close, not too far, but exactly where she needed him.
"I don't know how to keep up with your world," she finally admitted. "You're older, you have responsibilities, you're… stable. And I'm just a student."
He blinked, surprised. "You think that makes me look down on you?"
Doesn't it? The world certainly does.
But before she could respond, he reached for her hand—slowly, as if asking for permission.
"When I'm with you," he said, "I don't think about age, responsibility, any of it. I just think about how I feel."
She swallowed. "And how do you feel?"
He let out a breath that smelled faintly of coffee and late-night exhaustion.
"Like I'm becoming someone I swore I'd never be."
She stared at him. "What do you mean?"
He gave a small, conflicted smile.
"Someone who cares too quickly. Someone who wants too much."
Her breath caught.
Someone who would break rules just to stay close.
Someone who would choose her even when he shouldn't.
He didn't say the words out loud—but she heard them anyway.
"You don't have to be afraid," she whispered.
His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something deeper, something steady and frighteningly sincere.
"I'm not afraid for myself," he said. "I'm afraid of hurting you."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
She squeezed his hand.
"Then… don't run. Stay. And let me figure it out with you."
His gaze held hers for a long, silent moment.
Then he nodded. Slowly.
"Okay."
A simple word.
But it felt like a vow.