Chapter 24 - Chapter 24 — The Moment He Couldn’t Pretend Anymore

That evening, rain started unexpectedly. Heavy, cold, pouring in thick sheets. I had forgotten my umbrella. When I stepped out of the library, the sky was already dark. I hesitated under the roof, wondering if I should wait for the rain to stop. Before I could decide, I heard quick footsteps splashing through water. A moment later, he appeared. Breathless, soaked from the shoulders down, holding an umbrella above my head before I could even speak. "You'll get sick," he said, almost scolding. "Why are you standing out here like this?" I stared at him. "Why are you here?" "You texted you might study late." "I didn't ask you to come." "You didn't have to." He sounded frustrated—at himself, not at me. His hair was damp, droplets running down his jaw; his shirt clung to his collarbone. He must've run the whole way. "You're drenched," I said softly. "I'm fine," he replied too quickly. "Let's go." He shifted the umbrella so it covered me entirely, leaving half of himself exposed to the rain. Water streamed down his shoulder but he didn't move the umbrella even a centimeter. "You'll catch a cold," I murmured. "I said I'm fine." "You're always saying you're fine," I said. "Even when you're not." He stopped walking. His grip on the umbrella tightened. Slowly, he turned toward me. "…Then tell me what I'm supposed to say." His voice was low, raw, trembling with something heavy. Rain pounded around us but not between us. "Tell me what you want to hear," he whispered. "Because everything I want to say is exactly what I shouldn't." My heartbeat thundered. I took one step closer. "Then say it anyway." He exhaled shakily, shoulders rising with the breath. "If I say it," he murmured, "I won't be able to take it back." "I don't want you to take it back." His restraint snapped—not loudly, but in the way his eyes darkened, painfully soft and unbearably desperate. He lifted a hand, hesitating only for a fraction of a second before brushing wet strands of hair away from my face. His fingertips lingered on my cheek, warm despite the rain. He swallowed. "I shouldn't want you the way I do." My breath hitched. He didn't pull his hand away. "But I do." The confession hung heavy in the air, heavier than the rain, heavier than the night around us. He stepped closer, the umbrella lowering slightly, pulling us into a world of our own. "Every day," he whispered, "I'm fighting not to cross a line." "You already crossed it," I breathed. His hand trembled against my skin. "I know." And yet—he still didn't let go. When we finally reached my dorm entrance, he tried to step back, but my fingers caught the hem of his sleeve. He looked at me, rainwater sliding down his jaw, expression torn. "Don't make this harder," he said softly. "Then don't leave." His breath shuddered. "If I stay," he murmured, "I won't be able to pretend anymore." "Then stop pretending." Silence. The kind that comes before something irreversible. Then he gently took my hand—the first time he'd ever done it consciously, deliberately. His thumb pressed against my palm, a silent confession. He leaned in slightly, forehead almost touching mine, breath warm despite the cold night. "…I'm afraid of what happens next," he whispered. "I'm not," I answered. His eyes softened—beautiful, broken, tender. "That's what scares me." He let go of my hand slowly, painfully, as if his fingers didn't want to stop touching me. "Go inside," he said, voice trembling. "Before I do something I can't undo." This time, I didn't argue. But as I stepped back, he watched me with an expression so raw it felt like a touch. Just before the door closed, he whispered—barely audible under the rain: "Goodnight." But his eyes said everything he couldn't say out loud. And for the first time, he didn't look away.