The night settled over the city like velvet, soft and heavy, and she found herself standing on his balcony again, fingers gripping the cold railing. The streets below were blurred with lights, cars moving like slow-moving sparks. But none of it held her attention. Not when her mind was spinning with the memory of what happened earlier—his voice, his touch, the way he held her as if he was afraid of losing her again.
Behind her, she heard the quiet sound of the balcony door sliding open. She didn't need to look back to know it was him. His presence always announced itself in ways she recognized instantly—his steady footsteps, the faint scent of his cologne, the subtle warmth he carried with him even in the coldest air.
"You're thinking too loudly again," he said softly, coming to stand behind her.
She didn't respond at first. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, letting the breeze sweep her hair back.
"I'm not thinking," she murmured. "I'm trying not to."
He let out a quiet breath, then rested a hand on the railing beside hers—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"That usually means you're thinking too much," he countered calmly.
She looked down at her hands. "You said a lot today."
"I did."
"And you meant all of it."
"I did," he repeated without hesitation.
She finally turned toward him.
His eyes were steady, shadowed by the faint city glow, but full of something she had learned to recognize—affection, restraint, longing, concern. Everything he refused to name out loud but gave away in every gesture, every hard swallow, every time his hand hovered near her before he pulled back again.
"You said you wouldn't leave," she reminded him quietly.
He stepped closer, closing the distance until his presence wrapped around her like a second layer of air. His hand lifted—hesitating only a heartbeat—before he brushed her cheek gently.
"I won't," he said. "Even if you push me away, even if you get scared again, even if we fight… I'll be here."
Her chest tightened—not painfully, just overwhelmingly.
"But what if I make mistakes?"
"You will."
"What if I hurt you?"
"You might."
"What if I'm too young for all of this?"
"You are," he admitted. "But that doesn't make your feelings any less real."
She blinked up at him, speechless.
He continued, his voice a low rumble.
"And it doesn't make mine any less dangerous."
Her breath caught.
The honesty in his tone… it wasn't like him to speak so openly. He usually hid behind calm answers, measured actions, the mask of maturity he wore like armor.
But tonight—he wasn't hiding.
"You're dangerous?" she whispered.
He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening as he considered his next words—like he was afraid of what telling the truth might do.
"Because I want you more than I should," he said.
"Because I'm older, and I know what crossing the line will mean."
"Because I'm trying so hard to protect you, and myself, and everything in between."
"And because," he finally looked at her again, "if I let myself go too far… I don't know if I can go back."
Her heart thudded so loudly she was certain he heard it.
"And what if I don't want you to go back?" she whispered.
A muscle in his jaw jumped. His fingers curled slightly, as if fighting the urge to hold her properly, fully.
"Don't say things like that," he murmured.
"Why not?"
"Because I believe you," he said, stepping even closer. "And that's the problem."
She swallowed hard.
"Is it really a problem?"
"It is when someone like me wants someone like you this much."
The confession hung between them—raw, startling, impossible to pretend away.
She reached for his hand then, gently prying his fingers open so she could slip her hand inside his. He froze for half a second, as if the simple touch hit him too deeply.
"You don't have to be afraid of wanting me," she said softly. "You don't."
He let out a slow breath, the kind that sounded like surrender.
"I'm not afraid of wanting you," he said. "I'm afraid of how much."
She squeezed his hand.
"Then let me carry some of it too."
His eyes softened.
"You don't know how heavy it is."
"Teach me."
He exhaled again—a shocked, quiet laugh—before leaning his forehead against hers, drawing her into the warm solidity of his chest.
"You're trouble," he whispered.
"And you're the one who keeps coming back," she whispered back.
His hand slid around her waist then—finally choosing closeness over restraint—and he pulled her gently against him.
"And I'm not going anywhere," he murmured into her hair.
"Not tonight."
"Not after tonight."
What followed wasn't dramatic.
Just real.
He held her for a long time while the city lights flickered below, her heartbeat syncing with the steady rhythm of his. No rush, no chaos, no fear—only the quiet certainty that they were choosing each other again.
When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
"Stay with me a little longer?"
She nodded instantly.
"As long as you want."
His fingers tightened around her waist.
"Longer than that," he said.