The next morning came with a gentle, golden light slipping past the curtains. She woke slowly, warmth surrounding her like a soft cocoon. It took her a few seconds to realize she wasn't in her own room. The sheets were different. The scent was different—clean, warm, faintly masculine.
His scent.
Her breath paused.
She turned her head slightly—and there he was.
Sitting beside the bed. Again.
His posture was relaxed this time, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced. He wasn't staring out the window. He was staring at her. Quietly. Thoughtfully. As if watching her sleep was something he did without even meaning to.
"You're awake," he murmured.
She nodded, pushing herself up slowly.
"You didn't sleep?"
"A little," he said. "I didn't want to leave the room."
Her heartbeat fluttered helplessly.
"Why?"
"Because after everything we talked about last night…"
He paused.
"I wanted to be here if you woke up scared or unsure."
She stared at him.
"Do you think I regret it?"
He hesitated, just for a second.
"I think… I'm afraid you might."
She scooted closer, her legs crossing under the blanket.
"I don't regret anything."
He studied her, searching for hesitation, but found none.
Slowly, he exhaled.
"Good," he whispered. "Because I don't think I can step back anymore."
Her cheeks warmed.
"Then don't."
His eyes softened in a way that made her chest ache.
He reached out, brushing a finger under her chin, tilting her face up.
"You don't know what you're inviting," he murmured.
She held his gaze. "I know exactly what I want."
His composure slipped just enough for her to see it—the desire, the conflict, the pull he had been fighting.
And losing.
He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the mattress near her knee.
"Come here," he said softly.
She crawled closer, settling in front of him, her knees brushing his. His hand rose to her cheek, guiding her gently, his thumb tracing slow circles across her skin.
"You're too brave for your own good," he murmured.
"And you think too much," she countered.
He smiled—a small, real smile that reached his eyes.
"Maybe."
The air between them thickened, warm and breathless.
Then his expression shifted—serious, vulnerable in a way she wasn't used to seeing.
"There's something I need to know," he said quietly. "You said last night that you're not leaving. That you choose me. Is that still true this morning?"
She didn't let him finish.
She moved forward and wrapped her arms around him, her forehead pressing against his shoulder.
"Yes," she said, her voice firm. "I choose you. Every day."
His breath shuddered.
He held her tightly, one hand at the back of her head, the other around her waist, pulling her closer than he ever dared before.
"Then I need to tell you something too," he whispered into her hair.
"I'm falling for you. Harder than I should."
Her heart stopped—just for a beat.
Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt.
"I wanted to say it sooner," he continued. "But I was afraid it would push you away."
She leaned back enough to see his face.
"You saying that… doesn't push me away."
He touched her jaw gently, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
"It pulls you closer?"
She nodded.
His voice dropped lower.
"Then come closer."
She did.
And when he kissed her forehead—soft, lingering, full of everything he couldn't say out loud—she felt something shift inside her.
Something permanent.
Something like love slowly taking shape.
The room was quiet, but the closeness between them grew thicker, deeper, more real than either of them had expected so soon.
"You're not losing me," she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
"I'm starting to believe that."
And as he held her against him, morning light painting the room in gold, neither of them took a step back.
Not anymore.