I wake up expecting panic.
That sharp, electric dread that usually follows emotional honesty. The one that asks if I imagined everything. If I said too much. If I scared him away.
It never comes.
Sunlight spills across my ceiling in a soft band of gold. My phone sits on the nightstand, silent and ordinary. No missed calls. No frantic messages. No absence screaming at me.
My chest feels… warm.
Not buzzing. Not aching.
Just calm.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at nothing, and let the truth settle into my bones.
He didn't disappear.
Neither did I.
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The studio smells like coffee and cables and something fried when I walk in. The day hums into motion like it always does.
And yet… it feels different.
I don't look for him right away. I don't have to. I feel him before I see him, like a shift in gravity.
"Good morning."
I turn.
Jingyi stands a few steps away, hair still slightly damp, jacket slung over one shoulder. His expression is careful… but not distant.
Open.
"Morning," I say.
He studies my face for a second longer than necessary.
"Did you sleep," he asks.
"Yes."
A pause.
"And you?"
"Well enough."
We share a small smile. Private. Quiet.
No one notices.
Or maybe everyone does, and they're polite enough not to say anything.
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We don't talk about what happened on the rooftop.
Not because it's fragile… but because it isn't.
The truth sits between us like something solid. Something that doesn't need defending.
When he passes behind my chair later, his arm brushes mine lightly.
I don't flinch.
When I hand him a revised page, our fingers touch.
I don't pull away.
The awareness hums under my skin, warm and steady.
This is intimacy without urgency.
And it feels… safe.
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Late afternoon, the set clears for a lighting reset.
We end up alone in a hallway that smells faintly of paint and dust. He stops walking at the same time I do.
We turn toward each other.
The space between us is narrow. Intentional.
He lifts his hand, like he might touch my arm… then hesitates.
I look up at him.
He looks down at me.
The moment stretches.
Breaths mingle. My heart picks up, but it doesn't race.
He leans in slightly.
So do I.
Then footsteps echo from the corner and someone passes by, oblivious.
The spell breaks.
We both laugh softly, breathless and a little stunned.
"Timing," I murmur.
He smiles.
"Always."
There's no disappointment in his eyes.
Just promise.
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Later, we sit on opposite ends of a table during notes.
It doesn't feel like distance.
It feels like choice.
When the director finally dismisses us, the sun has dipped low enough to smear the windows with amber light.
Jingyi waits for me near the exit.
"I don't want to rush you," he says quietly as we walk.
I stop.
Turn to him.
"I don't want to rush myself," I reply.
He exhales, relief softening his shoulders.
"Good," he says. "Then we're aligned."
Aligned.
The word settles into me like a vow.
He walks me to my car.
Not dramatically. Just… naturally. Like it's always been this way.
He opens the door for me, hand resting on the frame until I'm safely inside.
Before I close it, he leans down slightly.
"I meant what I said," he tells me.
I meet his gaze.
"I know," I say.
That's enough.
I drive home with the windows cracked, night air cool against my skin.
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Later, alone in my apartment, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my hand.
At the place on my arm where he held me.
I press my fingers there gently.
Not longing.
Anticipation.
For the first time, the future doesn't scare me.
It waits.
Softly.
And I'm not afraid to meet it.