Eli's morning started slower than usual. Not because of tiredness, but because the night before had left something behind—like a song that kept echoing long after the music had stopped.
Her blush. Her voice, uncertain but warm. The way she didn't answer.
He had barely slept. His dreams blurred with memory: her fingers brushing against his, her lips curling into half-smiles, the nervous glance she gave him when she handed him the gallery invitation.
He made coffee but left it half-drunk on the table. Something in him felt suspended—like he was waiting for a moment he already knew was coming.
Friday.
It wasn't just a gallery showcase anymore. It was something more.
Alina stood in front of her wardrobe for the tenth time that morning.
"No," she muttered, tossing another outfit onto her bed. Everything felt too much or not enough.
It wasn't about looking perfect.
It was about how she felt when she stood beside him.
Calm. Excited. Scared. Safe.
All at once.
She finally settled on a simple dark dress and soft brown boots. Subtle. Herself. But with a tiny gold chain at her wrist—just enough sparkle to say, Tonight matters.
When she arrived at the gallery, Harper was already inside, greeting guests. The place buzzed with low conversation, scattered laughter, clinking glasses, and soft instrumental jazz. Her photograph was displayed on the far wall—a black-and-white portrait of an elderly man reading in the park.
But she didn't notice who was admiring it.
Until she saw him.
Eli stood with his hands in his pockets, head tilted, studying the photo like it held some secret no one else could see.
She walked up slowly. "You came."
He turned, and his smile wasn't just warm—it was entirely hers.
"Of course I did."
"You like it?" she asked, nodding toward the photograph.
"I love it," he said. "But I was mostly here to see the artist."
Her eyes lingered on his. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They stood in the soft halo of gallery lights, and for a moment, neither of them moved. There was no need to speak. The silence did it for them.
An hour passed.
They wandered through the gallery together, shoulders occasionally brushing. Their laughter low, their words unhurried. He caught her watching him once—just as he was watching her.
He leaned in. "You okay?"
She nodded, breath caught. "Yes. Just... thinking."
"What about?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she led him toward the back of the gallery where the crowd thinned out. The room was quieter, filled with intimate portraits and raw, emotional stills. The walls felt closer here. The air warmer.
They stood before a painting of two lovers—backs turned, hands barely touching.
Eli whispered, "That's us."
Alina looked up at him slowly. "How?"
"Because even when we don't touch... it feels like we are."
She turned fully toward him, her breath just slightly trembling. "Eli?"
"Yes?"
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Why do you make me feel like this?"
"Like what?" he asked gently.
"Like I'm both falling and flying."
He stepped closer.
Not touching her.
Not yet.
Their faces inches apart now.
Her lips parted. Her eyes searched his.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
And stayed.
She didn't move away.
Neither did he.
The tension was alive. Electric. Unspoken.
But just when his hand almost reached for her cheek
"Alina!" Harper's voice echoed from the main room. "They're about to announce the awards!"
The moment broke.
She stepped back.
He blinked.
And they both exhaled at once—like they'd been holding breath underwater.
Alina turned toward the doorway, her back still tingling from what almost happened.
Eli stood still, watching her go, heart pounding so loud he was sure someone could hear.
He didn't follow.
Not yet.
He just whispered to himself:
Almost.