The first thing I noticed when I stepped into his apartment again wasn't the warmth of the lights, nor the faint scent of cedar that always lingered around him. It was the tension in the air—heavy, quiet, unmistakably different from every other time I'd been here. He closed the door behind me, slower than usual, as if sealing us in changed something he could no longer avoid.
"Did you eat?" he asked, but his voice was distant, distracted.
"A little," I answered.
He nodded, though his focus wasn't really on my reply. It was on me. Not in the casual, fleeting way people look at someone they're talking to, but in a way that felt deliberate, almost reluctant. As if he didn't want to look—and yet couldn't stop.
I set my bag down beside the sofa, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with whatever he planned to say. His shirt sleeves were rolled up again, exposing the veins on his forearms. He always looked strongest when he was trying his hardest not to break.
"I thought a lot last night," he finally said.
"About… me?"
He breathed out, slow and uneven. "About us."
The word "us" landed too heavily. I felt it in my chest, like something warm and fragile pressing against my ribs. He walked to the counter, bracing his hands against the cool surface as if grounding himself. His back rose and fell in a steady, controlled rhythm. A rhythm that didn't match the turmoil in his voice.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he said.
"You invited me."
"I know," he answered quietly. "And that's the problem."
He turned then, leaning one hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely—his defenses, thin and tired. His eyes met mine with a kind of exhaustion that wasn't physical. It was emotional. The exhaustion of resisting something for too long.
"You make it hard to think straight," he admitted.
I swallowed. "Is that bad?"
"It could be." His jaw tightened. "I am supposed to be the responsible one. The adult. I shouldn't let you affect me like this."
"Then I'll leave," I whispered, though the words tasted like betrayal.
He stepped forward instantly. Too fast. "Don't." His voice dropped, almost a plea. "Don't leave."
He stopped only when he was directly in front of me, close enough that the heat of his presence brushed against my skin. His control was slipping—I could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his sides, in the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, in the way his gaze kept drifting to my mouth before he forced it back to my eyes.
"You don't know what you're doing to me," he murmured.
"I do," I said softly. "Because you're doing the same thing to me."
Something broke then—not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly. Like a lock clicking open after being forced too long. His shoulders dropped, the tension melting into something raw and unguarded.
"Come here," he said—quietly, almost reluctantly, as if the words escaped against his will.
I stepped toward him until the space between us disappeared. He lifted a hand, cupping the side of my neck with a gentleness that contradicted the storm in his eyes. His thumb brushed lightly against my skin, drawing a path of warmth that made my breath stagger.
"I should stop," he whispered.
"But you won't," I whispered back.
He exhaled shakily, forehead resting against mine, the tip of his nose grazing mine. That small, almost accidental touch sent a wave of heat through my entire body. He wasn't kissing me. He wasn't holding me closer. He was just there, suspended in a moment that felt more intimate than either of those things.
"If I keep going," he said, "I'm afraid I won't know how to stop."
"Then don't," I breathed. "Just… don't stop."
His eyes closed, and for the first time, he didn't step away.
He didn't retreat into safety.
He didn't pretend.
And that was the moment he finally let his guard slip.