The air between us felt thinner than it should have, as if the room itself understood the tension better than either of us did. After he whispered "I can't", something inside me shifted. The truth was out. There was no going back to pretending.
He took a slow breath, one that seemed to steady him and unravel him at the same time.
"Close the blinds," he said quietly.
I blinked. "Why?"
He didn't turn toward me. "Because people can see through the glass from the hallway."
His voice wasn't commanding; it was careful. Controlled. Terrified that caution would fail him a second time.
I walked to the window, pulling the blinds shut. When I turned back, he was watching me—really watching me—with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
"This isn't how this was supposed to go," he murmured. "I should be stronger than this."
I took a small step forward. "You don't have to be strong all the time."
"That's the problem. Around you, I'm not."
He leaned against the edge of his desk as if his legs couldn't fully support him. His eyes dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly until they met mine.
"You deserve someone who can give you something simple. Something clean. Someone who isn't constantly fighting himself."
"Maybe I don't want simple." I swallowed. "Maybe I want you."
He exhaled, almost in pain. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me."
He pushed off the desk and walked toward me. Not fast. Not slow. A pace that felt deliberate, like each step was a decision.
When he stopped in front of me, close enough for me to feel the warmth of him, he said softly:
"If I let myself want you… I won't be able to stop."
My breath hitched. "Then don't stop."
He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. For a moment, I thought he would step back.
Instead, he lifted a hand—hesitant, trembling—and brushed his fingers against my cheek. It was barely a touch, light enough to deny, heavy enough to burn.
"You make it impossible to think clearly."
"Then don't think."
His thumb grazed my skin again. "This isn't a game."
"I know."
"You have no idea how badly I—"
He cut himself off, dropping his hand suddenly as if he realized he had said too much.
He turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have touched you."
"But you did."
"I'm trying to control myself."
"You don't have to pretend with me."
He froze. For a moment, the room was painfully quiet.
"Sit down," he said finally.
I sat in the same chair as yesterday. He stayed standing, but his voice had changed—calmer, but not distant.
"We need to set rules."
"Rules?" I repeated.
"Yes," he said. "Because if I don't draw a line, I'll cross it."
"What kind of rules?"
He swallowed. "We don't touch. We don't stay alone together longer than necessary. And we… we don't talk about that night again."
"What if I don't agree?"
His eyes lifted sharply to mine. "I'm not asking you to agree. I'm telling you what needs to happen."
It stung more than I expected.
But then he added, softer—
"Because if I don't set these rules, I'll ruin both of us."
He paced once, stopped, then looked at me with an expression that held both longing and defeat.
"But even with rules," he said quietly, "I still don't want you to stop coming here."
My pulse quickened. "Why?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Because you feel like the one good thing I've had in a long time."
The confession silenced both of us.
He took another breath, steadier this time. "Let's try to do this right. For now."
"For now," I echoed.
He nodded.
But neither of us believed we could keep those rules for long.