— NOLAN'S POV—
I saw him walk away.
I wanted to stop him—to explain, to say something. But the words just didn't come.
My lips parted, then closed again.
And then the moment was gone.
I was alone on the couch. Again.
The silence around me felt heavier than before, like even the walls were holding their breath.
I eventually stood, forcing my legs to move toward the guest room he'd pointed out. The door opened with a soft click, and what I saw made something sink inside my chest.
The room wasn't just tidy—it was thoughtful.
My favorite chocolate sat neatly on the nightstand. A familiar brand I hadn't mentioned in years. A small vase held blue hyacinths—the same flowers that used to grow outside the orphanage. The sheets were already turned down.
It felt like someone had spent time… thinking about me. Preparing.
And instead of comfort, guilt clawed its way up my throat.
Why do I feel like the one who's wrong?
I sat on the bed's edge, staring at the floor. My mind kept replaying everything—his expression when I asked that question, the disbelief in his voice, the way he left.
I wasn't wrong to question him. I should be cautious. I should be scared.
And yet…
I closed my eyes.
But sleep never came.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Eventually, I gave up. My body moved on its own, toward the kitchen. I poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring out at the flickering streetlight below.
The light blinked on and off in uneven bursts.
That same uneasy feeling crawled up my spine.
I stood outside his door, hand half-raised to knock.
God, what was I doing?
I told myself I just needed to check if he was okay. Nothing more. It was what anyone would do after... after saying something like that.
But that wasn't true, was it?
I didn't care if he was okay. I cared too much.
My fingers hovered. The hallway was quiet, but my pulse wasn't. I could still feel the scratch on my arm—cleaned and dressed now—but the real wound was deeper. I'd seen it in his eyes when I said it. It wasn't you, right?
My hand finally knocked. Soft. Hesitant.
The door wasn't locked. It creaked open on its own.
His room was dim, shadows long. The only light came from a small lamp on the floor, next to where he was sitting — legs drawn up, back against the bed. His head tilted slightly when he saw me. He didn't move.
"You're here," he said quietly. Not a question. Not relief. Just… acknowledgment.
"I—" I stepped in. Closed the door behind me. "I couldn't sleep."
He didn't respond.
I felt small under his gaze. He wasn't angry. That would've been easier. He just looked… emptied out. Like I'd said something that took the last thing holding him together.
"I didn't mean what I said earlier," I forced out. "I just… I'm not thinking clearly right now."
Still nothing.
"I didn't want to believe it was you. I didn't. But after everything that's happened—I just—I panicked."
Silence again.
I crouched beside him. Close, but not too close.
"You scare me sometimes," I admitted. "Not because I think you'll hurt me. But because I don't understand what this is. What you are. What you want from me."
That finally made him turn his head.
His eyes were glossy in the low light. Not teary—he wouldn't let himself cry in front of me—but something wet still shimmered in them.
"You think I'm doing all this for myself?" he whispered. "That I want something from you?"
I swallowed. "Don't you?"
He leaned forward, slow, like every movement cost him something. His voice cracked on the edges.
"You think I would bleed for you—fight for you—crawl through every shadow you're scared of just to get something from you?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"You think I could hurt you?" he added, almost too quietly to hear.
I looked down.
"No," I whispered. "I just… I didn't want it to be you. Because if it was, then maybe everything I'm starting to believe about you is wrong."
A breath escaped him. Shaky. Like he'd been holding it for hours.
"I know what I am," he said. "I've done things that should make you run."
I looked up.
He was staring at me now—finally, fully.
"But I've never," he said, "wanted anything but to keep you safe. Even when you hated me. Even when you ignored me. Even when I hated myself for what I felt."
My throat tightened. Something about the way he said it. Like he was confessing to a crime.
I moved closer.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I said, voice small.
He blinked, slow.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
His gaze finally lifted, locking with mine. I continued, voice uneven. "I don't know why I'm apologizing, really. You scared me. But... I feel worse for hurting you. And I didn't want that."
He still didn't say anything, but something in his shoulders relaxed. His eyes weren't as sharp anymore. Just… tired. Worn down. Like he'd been waiting hours for me to say one thing. Anything.
Without asking, without warning—he pulled me into his arms.
Not forcefully.
Not possessively.
Just tightly. Desperately.
"Don't push me away," he murmured. "Please. Just let me stay like this… just for a moment."
I didn't resist.
I didn't know why.
Maybe I was too exhausted.
Maybe a part of me wanted to stay, too.
He held on like I was the only thing keeping him together. And for once, I didn't try to fix it or analyze it.
I just let him.
Then his voice broke the silence again—quiet, shaky.
"You're not afraid of me… right?"
My stomach twisted.
I didn't expect the question. Didn't expect how much it would hurt.
I should be afraid of him.
After everything.
But right now, with his arms around me, with his voice cracking like that—I couldn't bring myself to say anything cruel.
So I lied.
"No," I said softly. "I was just… shocked."
His grip tightened, just slightly. Like that was enough for him.
And for tonight… maybe it was enough for me too.