The ride back to the city carried a strange quiet—
not an awkward silence, but the kind where emotions pressed too close to the surface to be spoken. She could feel him glancing at her every so often, checking if she was cold, tired, overwhelmed, or still thinking too much. And she was—thinking too much, feeling too much, wanting too much.
The lights of downtown bled through the car windows when he finally broke the silence.
"You didn't eat dinner," he murmured.
It wasn't a question.
She looked down at her hands. "I wasn't hungry."
"That's not a good reason."
"I know."
Another long pause.
She felt him looking at her again—longer this time.
"…Were you upset with me?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed. "No. I was upset with myself."
He frowned at that, a small crease forming between his brows. "Why would you be upset with yourself?"
"Because—" She hesitated, searching for the words. "Because I think I rely on you too much."
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "That's not something I want you to apologize for."
"It's not an apology."
He exhaled through his nose, not angry—just… conflicted.
"Then what is it?" he asked.
"A confession."
That made him glance over sharply.
She continued before he could speak.
"I know you try to protect me from everything. I know you're careful with me. And I know you think I should be living like… a normal college girl." A humorless smile pulled at her lips. "But I'm not. Not anymore."
The light ahead turned red and the car slowed to a stop.
He turned fully, watching her—not with impatience, but with a deep, restrained intensity.
"What do you think I'm trying to protect you from?"
"Me," she whispered.
"From wanting me the way I want you."
Something flickered in his expression—heat, frustration, longing.
All layered under control he was barely holding onto.
"That's not true," he finally said.
"Yes, it is," she insisted softly. "You think if you cross a certain line, I'll get hurt. But I'm already hurt every time you hold yourself back."
His jaw tightened at that.
Cars passed by. People walked across the street.
But inside the car, the air grew heavy.
"You don't understand," he said, voice low.
"Then make me understand."
He didn't answer immediately.
He had always been a man who chose his words, who weighed consequences, who refused to act impulsively.
But tonight—the hesitation was different.
"I'm older," he said finally. "I have a life you haven't seen all of. Responsibilities. Baggage."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't."
He closed his eyes, just for a moment.
When he opened them again, they were darker.
"You say you want this," he whispered, "but you don't realize how dangerous it is for me to believe you."
Her breath caught.
This was the closest he had ever come to admitting the truth beneath his restraint.
"Dangerous?" she repeated.
"Yes."
His voice dropped another octave.
"Because if I stop pulling back… I won't be able to stop at all."
Her pulse spiked.
The light turned green, but he didn't move.
People behind them honked.
He didn't move.
"Drive," she whispered, suddenly breathless.
He didn't.
Instead he leaned slightly closer, his hand lifting from the wheel to rest momentarily on her knee—firm, grounding, sending electricity straight through her spine.
"You want honesty?" he asked quietly.
"Then listen carefully."
She nodded, unable to speak.
"If I didn't care about what happens to you," he murmured, "I would have kissed you last night. I would have kissed you in the cabin hallway. I would have kissed you in front of everyone who saw us today."
Her breath hitched, loud in the confined space.
"And right now," he continued, voice rougher, "I want to pull this car over and forget every rule I ever set for myself."
Her fingers curled tightly into her skirt.
"But I can't," he forced out, pulling his hand back. "Not when I'm the one who should be protecting you from that kind of mistake."
She stared at him—shocked, overwhelmed, hurt—but also… fiercely relieved.
"So you do want me," she whispered.
His eyes locked on hers.
Raw. Unfiltered.
"More than you realize."
The honking behind them grew louder.
He finally moved, shifting back into drive and pulling forward.
The rest of the ride carried a new tension—different from the earlier quiet.
Denser. Heavier.
Electric.
When he stopped in front of her dorm, she didn't move to open the door.
Neither did he.
"You're thinking too much again," he murmured.
"How can I not?"
He looked at her, searching her expression.
"…Do you regret anything about today?" he asked.
"No."
His shoulders relaxed. Just slightly.
"Do you regret anything I said?"
"No."
Another long pause.
"Do you want me to keep my distance?" he asked.
The question trembled beneath his usually steady tone.
She looked straight into his eyes.
"No," she said. "I want you to stop pretending you don't feel anything."
His breath caught.
Just barely.
Then he said something he never allowed himself to say before.
"…Then I need you to be patient with me."
She blinked. "I have been."
"I know. And I'm trying." He looked down at his hands, then back at her. "You make it harder every day."
Her cheeks flushed.
He noticed.
And for the first time that night—a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Go inside," he said gently. "Before I change my mind about letting you go."
She hesitated.
He sighed softly and leaned closer, lifting a hand as if to touch her face—but stopping half an inch away, hovering, not daring to close the distance.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
Her heart squeezed.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
She stepped out of the car, but before she could close the door, he called her name.
She looked back.
He held her gaze for a long, long moment.
"…I meant everything I said," he told her.
Then he drove off, leaving her standing under the streetlight—breathless, shaken, and more certain than ever that the line between them was close to breaking.