The evening sky outside his apartment window was tinted with a fading gold, the kind that softened everything it touched. She stood near the glass, watching the shifting colors, but the real storm wasn't outside—it was in her chest.
She felt him move behind her before she heard anything. His presence was a quiet warmth, the kind that always made her shoulders drop without realizing it. Yet tonight, something was different. Something in the air felt heavier, expecting.
He stopped a step behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint ghost of his breath brush the back of her neck.
"You've been quiet since dinner," he said softly.
She didn't turn around. "You noticed."
"Of course I noticed."
His tone was low, steady—too steady, like he was forcing himself not to touch her yet.
Her fingers curled against the window frame. She knew he was waiting for her to speak, but the words tangled. The doubts, the wants, the fears—they crowded her all at once.
"I keep thinking…" She swallowed. "Even when I'm with you… I'm scared of losing you."
That made him exhale slowly.
He stepped closer.
Not touching. Not yet. Just closing the space inch by inch, the way he always did when he wanted her to feel safe enough to continue.
"What makes you think you'll lose me?" he asked.
She closed her eyes. "Because you feel like something I never deserved."
He reached out at that—gentle fingers brushing down her arm—but she flinched, not because she didn't want him, but because the emotion inside her was too full.
He didn't pull back.
If anything, his hand settled more firmly on her forearm, grounding her in ways words never could.
"Turn around," he murmured.
She hesitated. He waited. He always waited for her.
Finally, she turned.
The moment she faced him, his eyes softened in a way that almost broke her. He lifted his hand and touched her cheek—not rushed, not hesitant, just tender enough to make her knees weaken.
"You think you don't deserve me," he said quietly, "but I'm the one who feels undeserving."
Her breath snagged. "Why would you say that?"
"Because you look at me like I'm someone better than I really am."
Her heartbeat stuttered. "You are better. You just don't see it."
A small, helpless smile tugged at his lips. He stepped closer until their bodies were almost touching. "Then we're both idiots, aren't we? You think you'll lose me. I think I'm not enough for you."
She didn't know what came over her then—maybe the warmth of his voice, maybe the ache in his eyes—but she reached up and touched his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble line.
"You're enough," she whispered. "You're more than enough."
He closed his eyes briefly, as if absorbing every syllable.
When he opened them again, something in his gaze had shifted—more open, more vulnerable, more wanting.
"You say that," he murmured, "and I start wanting you in ways I shouldn't."
Her breath caught; heat crawled up her neck.
But she didn't move away.
Not this time.
He lifted her chin gently with two fingers. "Tell me what you're thinking."
She hesitated, then let the truth slip out in a trembling exhale.
"I'm thinking… I like being close to you. I like when you touch me. I like when you look at me like that."
His jaw tensed, not with restraint but with the effort of holding himself still.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he said.
She stepped forward, closing the last inch between them. His breath hitched—barely, but she caught it. Her hand slid to his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath.
"Then show me," she whispered.
His eyes darkened. "You're playing with fire."
"I'm not playing," she whispered.
The moment the words left her mouth, something in him snapped—but not in a dangerous way. In a controlled, precise, unmistakably intentional way.
He cupped the back of her head and kissed her forehead—slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
Not her lips.
Not yet.
"You mean too much to me," he said against her skin. "I'm not going to rush you."
She trembled.
"I'm not rushing," she whispered. "I want this. I want you."
He swallowed hard, pulling back to look at her properly. Her expression must've been raw enough because he let out a quiet breath that sounded like surrender.
He touched her waist lightly. "Then stay tonight."
Her heart lurched. "I am staying."
"Not because you feel you'll lose me," he clarified softly. "But because you want to. Do you?"
She nodded immediately. "Yes."
He searched her face, making sure she wasn't just saying it.
Then he took her hand.
Not pulling her into anything reckless.
Just holding it—warm, firm, protective.
He led her to the couch, not the bed, and sat with her beside him. His thumb brushed circles over her knuckles as silence settled around them—comfortable, intimate.
She rested her head on his shoulder. "Does this make us… official?"
His arm wrapped around her waist. "It makes us honest."
She smiled, slow and real. "Then be honest with me."
He kissed the top of her head. "I want you. Not for a night. Not to distract myself. I want you in my life."
Her throat tightened. "Then don't disappear on me."
"I won't."
His voice was steady, no hesitation. "Not now. Not ever."
She leaned into him fully, the fear finally loosening its grip on her ribs.
His other hand lifted, fingers threading softly through her hair.
"You've become a part of my days," he murmured, "and I don't want to imagine them without you."
Her eyes stung—not with sadness, but with the overwhelming relief of being wanted back.
She curled closer. "Then we'll figure the rest out together."
He rested his cheek against her hair.
"Yes," he whispered. "Together."
The golden light faded outside, leaving only the soft warmth of his apartment—and the even softer warmth of the man holding her like she was something precious.
Like she was something he finally allowed himself to keep.