The room had quieted, but nothing was still.
Hriva lay there, curled beside Jake, her cheek against his bare shoulder, listening to the beat of his heart as if it held the rhythm of something ancient. Something real. His arm was draped around her waist, fingers drawing idle lines along her spine like he was painting her into memory.
Neither of them spoke.
Not because there was nothing to say-but because some silences speak louder than words ever could.
Jake shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. She closed her eyes at the touch, letting it sink into her skin like a brand.
Outside, the city murmured in faint car horns and faraway footsteps. But in his apartment, the world felt paused. Like time had stretched this night for them and them alone.
"You still awake?" he asked, his voice rough, low, warm in her ear.
"Mhm," she murmured. "Barely. You're comfortable."
Jake chuckled. "I'm flattered."
She tilted her face up, chin resting on his chest. "That's not a compliment. It means you're making it very hard for me to move."
His hand moved to cup her jaw gently. "Good. Don't move. Stay here."
Hriva's lips curved. "Is that an order?"
"No. A hope."
Her smile faded slowly into something softer. Something deeper. "You keep saying things that make it harder to protect myself."
Jake looked down at her. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. "You don't have to."
"I don't want to fall too fast."
"Too late," he said simply.
Her breath hitched. She didn't answer. Couldn't. Not when his honesty came so raw, so direct.
So instead, she kissed him.
Just once.
Just enough.
Then she pulled back and whispered, "Let's talk about something else before I melt completely."
Jake grinned. "Fine. Favorite childhood memory."
Hriva laughed under her breath. "Really?"
"Yep. I'll trade you mine for yours."
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling like it held stories in its shadows. "My mom once drove me out of the city after a terrible week. Didn't tell me where we were going. We ended up at this tiny beach town. Stayed in a creaky old inn. No plans. No people. Just us and the sound of the ocean."
Jake listened like it was scripture.
"It was the first time I realized peace could be a place," she finished, voice quiet.
He leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple. "I like that. You carry it with you. That stillness."
Her eyes flicked toward him. "Your turn."
Jake folded his hands behind his head. "I was nine. My brother dared me to climb this rusted old water tower on a camping trip. I was terrified but did it anyway. When I got to the top… the view was insane. Stars everywhere. Silence. Like the whole world just hushed for a second. I felt like I was bigger than everything that scared me."
Hriva turned, propping herself on one elbow, chin in hand. "You still climb things when you're scared?"
He looked at her for a moment too long. "Only when I think what's waiting at the top is worth it."
And suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore.
Her hand reached across the space between them, fingers finding his.
"You talk like someone who's been hurt," she whispered.
Jake's jaw flexed, but his voice stayed steady. "You don't?"
"I'm not used to being wanted for more than a moment."
"Then get used to it," he said, tightening his grip on her hand.
And there it was again-that fire. Low and steady. Not a blaze, but something that could last through storms.
A moment later, Hriva sat up, pulling the sheet around her. The moonlight framed her in silver. Jake watched her, caught in the curve of her bare shoulder, the softness of her hair spilling down her back.
"Want tea?" she asked, standing and padding barefoot to the kitchen.
Jake propped himself up, resting his forearm against the pillow. "Only if you're making it."
She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Then it's gonna be too sweet."
"Just like you."
She scoffed but blushed-he could see it even in the low light.
They spent the next hour like that. Sipping tea, legs tangled on the couch, sharing pieces of their lives they'd never told anyone. Favorite songs. Worst heartbreaks. Strange dreams. Quiet fears.
No heavy touches. No rush toward the physical.
Just soul closeness.
By the time they returned to bed, sleep didn't come from exhaustion. It came from safety. From knowing that whatever this was, it was becoming something unshakable.
Before they drifted off, Hriva turned to him again.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want to say goodnight."
"Then don't," he whispered, pulling her closer. "Stay."
She did.
And in that cocoon of whispered confessions and slow, growing fire-they didn't need to rush toward anything.
They were already exactly where they belonged.