He locked the café door.
We stood outside in the cool night air.
I thought he would walk away first.
Instead, he hesitated.
"I'm trying," he said quietly.
"Trying what?"
"To keep things appropriate."
I stepped closer, just a little.
"Do you want to?"
His breath hitched.
He didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
So I said the truth he kept avoiding:
"You care about me."
He turned his head, voice barely audible.
"That's the problem."
But the way he looked at me—
like he was falling, slowly but helplessly—
told me we were already past the line.
And going back would be impossible.