Chapter 26 - Chapter 26 — The Way He Says My Name When He’s Not Thinking

He kept my hand in his for nearly ten minutes—longer than he probably intended, shorter than I wanted. When customers finally walked in, he let go abruptly, almost guiltily, but his fingers hesitated on mine for a beat too long. He stepped back behind the counter, forcing himself into his usual calm, polite demeanor. But the cracks were obvious. His voice shook once when he took an order. His eyes kept darting toward me. His hand brushed the counter where mine had been moments earlier. After the small rush ended, he brought a cup of tea to my table. "I didn't order this," I said. "I know," he replied. "You look like you need it." He sat across from me—too close, knees brushing mine under the table again. He didn't move them away. "What are we doing?" I asked softly. His eyes dropped to the table. "Something we probably shouldn't." "Do you regret it?" He hesitated. Then shook his head. "No. That's the problem." Warmth spread through my chest. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I keep replaying last night," he said. "You standing in the rain. The way you looked at me." His gaze flicked to mine, almost pained. "I almost kissed you." My breath caught. "Why didn't you?" He inhaled sharply. "…Because if I did, I wouldn't have been able to stop." The way he said it made my pulse race. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together tightly—as if holding himself back. "You're making this very hard for me," he said. "You know that, right?" "I'm not doing anything." "That's exactly why," he murmured. "You don't even try, and I—" He bit off the rest, shaking his head. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, quietly, almost without thinking, he said my name. Not the way he usually said it—gentle, careful—but soft, deep, raw, like he'd been holding it on his tongue for hours. My heart stumbled. His eyes widened slightly, realizing he'd said it without permission or restraint. "Sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't—" "Say it again." His breath faltered. "Don't ask me to do that." "Why not?" "Because I like saying it too much." My chest tightened. His gaze fell to my lips before he quickly looked away. He stood abruptly, as if he needed space to breathe. "I need to close early today," he said. "There's something I have to take care of." "Can I help?" "No," he said too quickly. Then softer: "I… don't trust myself if we're alone in here after closing." Heat rushed through me. He cleared his throat and grabbed a cloth to wipe down tables, but his movements were too stiff, too distracted. "You can stay until I lock up," he said quietly. "If you want." "Do you want me to?" His back was facing me, but his voice betrayed him. "Yes." I stayed. He cleaned in silence for a while, deliberately keeping a few steps of distance between us. But every time he turned, his eyes lingered. When he finally locked the door, the café fell into a soft, dim quiet. He stood by the entrance, keys in hand, staring at the floor as if debating something impossible. "I keep thinking," he said slowly, "that if I let myself get any closer, I won't be able to go back." I walked toward him. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. "Do you want to go back?" I asked. His eyes lifted to mine—tired, conflicted, full of longing he could no longer hide. "…No." The word escaped him like a surrender. He stepped toward me, just enough for our shadows to blend. Not touching. But close enough to feel the heat of his body. "I don't know what happens next," he whispered. "Then let's figure it out together." He exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders loosening for the first time all day. "You're going to ruin me," he murmured. "Or save you," I said. His eyes softened—fear and hope woven together. "Stay a little longer." I did. And for the first time, he didn't fight it.