The next day moved unbearably slow. Every lecture felt like noise, every hallway too bright, every minute stretching longer than it should have. I kept checking the time, counting down the hours until the final class ended.
When it finally did, I walked across campus, pulse racing. He hadn't said where to meet—only "somewhere quieter," which could mean anything. But my feet carried me to the only place that made sense:
The old music building.
Hardly anyone went there anymore. Half the classrooms were empty, the pianos out of tune, the walls echoing with old sound.
I pushed open the door.
He was already inside.
He stood near one of the dusty pianos, sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loose, looking like he hadn't taken a full breath all day.
When he saw me, something in his posture softened.
"You came," he said.
"You asked me to."
"Yes," he murmured. "I did."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, catching dim light from a single window. Silence wrapped around us, the kind that felt too intimate for two people who kept pretending they were trying to stay apart.
"I needed somewhere we wouldn't be interrupted," he said quietly. "Somewhere no one would make assumptions."
"Is that the only reason?"
He hesitated.
Then—softly:
"No."
I stepped closer.
He watched me the whole time, eyes dark with conflict, like he was trying to convince himself to stay still but failing.
"I haven't been able to focus since last night," he admitted. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you on that balcony."
My breath hitched. "And what did you think?"
"That I wanted to touch you."
He swallowed hard.
"And that I shouldn't."
His honesty made something tighten in my chest.
"You keep saying what we shouldn't do," I said. "But what do you want?"
He inhaled sharply. "Don't make me say it."
"I need to hear it."
He stepped back a half-step, not away from me—away from himself. "If I say it, I won't stop."
"Then don't stop."
He looked at me like I was breaking every rule he'd built around his heart.
"Why do you keep pushing?" he whispered.
"Because you keep pulling."
He closed his eyes, pained. "You're going to ruin me."
"Maybe we'll ruin each other."
His eyes snapped open, and the tension in the room shifted—heavier, deeper, almost electric.
"You can't say things like that," he said. "Not when I'm trying this hard to keep my distance."
"You brought me here."
"Yes," he said. "Because there's something I need to know."
He walked toward me slowly—not hesitant, not rushed—just deliberate.
When he stopped in front of me, close enough for my breath to catch, he asked in a low voice:
"Why me?"
I blinked. "I told you—"
"No," he interrupted softly. "Not the surface reasons. Not because I 'see' you or because I care. I want the truth. The raw truth."
I swallowed. "You make me feel something I can't feel with anyone else."
His expression deepened.
"What feeling?" he asked.
I met his gaze. "Something real."
He exhaled, a shaky, broken breath that told me he'd been waiting to hear that without knowing it.
"I feel it too," he whispered.
The space between us dissolved.
He didn't touch me.
I didn't touch him.
But he leaned in again—forehead nearly touching mine—breath trembling, restraint unraveling.
"This is the last line," he whispered. "If I cross it, I won't go back."
I breathed in slowly. "Then cross it."
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since everything started…
He didn't step away.