I told myself the week would pass quickly.
It didn't.
Time stretched in uncomfortable ways, folding in on itself every time my thoughts drifted back to the café, to the quiet certainty in Elias's voice, to the way he had left without asking for more.
That was the problem.
He hadn't taken anything.
Which meant whatever I was feeling now belonged entirely to me.
I tried to bury it under routine. Work. Errands. Small conversations that required polite smiles and no honesty. But the awareness lingered, low and constant, like a hum beneath my skin.
I caught myself replaying his words.
Nothing you don't offer.
It should have sounded reassuring.
Instead, it felt like a challenge I hadn't meant to accept.
---
By midweek, I started noticing how often my thoughts circled back to the same question.
What would he do if I leaned in first?
The idea unsettled me enough that I immediately dismissed it.
That wasn't who I was.
I didn't move toward uncertainty.
I didn't invite complication.
I certainly didn't test men who watched too closely.
And yet, every time my phone buzzed, a small, traitorous part of me hoped it was him.
It never was.
He kept his word.
---
The night before our next meeting, sleep refused me again.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths, listening to the city breathe outside my window. Somewhere between midnight and exhaustion, I admitted something I hadn't wanted to face.
I wasn't afraid of Elias.
I was afraid of what it said about me that his restraint felt more dangerous than pursuit.
---
The café looked the same the next afternoon.
Sunlight filtered through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Familiar sounds. Familiar smells. A place that had quietly become a marker in my week.
I arrived on time.
So did he.
This time, he didn't stop at the door.
He walked in calmly, scanning the room once before his eyes found mine. There was no hesitation, no pause to ask permission.
I had already given it.
He sat down across from me, the space between us slightly smaller than last time — not enough to be intimate, just enough to be intentional.
"You came," he said.
"So did you," I replied.
A faint smile touched his lips. "I said I would."
I studied him more closely now, noticing details I hadn't allowed myself to before. The stillness in his posture. The way he seemed completely unbothered by the noise around us, as if he existed in a quieter layer of the world.
"You're different today," he said.
I stiffened. "How?"
"You're not bracing," he replied. "Last time, you were already preparing to leave."
"And now?"
"Now you're deciding whether to stay."
The accuracy of it unsettled me.
"That doesn't mean I'm comfortable," I said.
"No," he agreed. "It means you're curious."
I took a sip of my coffee, buying myself a moment. "You talk like you already know the ending."
"I talk like I'm patient," he corrected. "Those aren't the same."
The word sent a shiver down my spine.
"Why are you so calm all the time?" I asked.
He considered that. "Because urgency makes people lie."
"To themselves or to others?"
"Both."
Silence settled between us — not heavy, not awkward. It felt… intentional. Like a pause neither of us was in a hurry to fill.
"Tell me something," I said quietly. "If I hadn't answered your message… if I hadn't come back here… would you have let this go?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
The certainty startled me.
"You don't expect me to believe that."
"You don't have to," he replied. "But it's true."
"And if I stop coming?" I pressed.
"Then I'll stop waiting," he said simply.
I searched his face for deception and found none.
That honesty did something dangerous to me.
---
When we stood to leave, it happened without discussion.
We walked outside together.
Not touching.
Not brushing arms.
Just existing within the same pace.
The afternoon air was warm, the street busy with people who had no idea how carefully every step I took was measured.
He stopped at the corner.
"I won't walk you home," he said.
"I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
A pause.
"But you noticed," he added.
I hated that he was right.
"Elias," I said before I could stop myself.
He turned back, attentive.
"If this keeps going," I said slowly, choosing each word with care, "it won't stay like this."
"No," he agreed. "It won't."
"And you're okay with that?"
"I'm aware of it," he said. "There's a difference."
I exhaled. "You make everything sound deliberate."
"Because it is."
The honesty was disarming.
"I don't want to lose myself," I said quietly.
His gaze softened — just enough to feel real. "Then don't."
"That's not a promise," I said.
"No," he replied. "It's respect."
Something inside me shifted.
He stepped back then, giving me space without being asked.
"Next time," he said, "you decide how close we stand."
My pulse quickened.
"And if I decide not to decide?" I asked.
His eyes held mine steadily. "Then we stay right here."
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing at the corner, my thoughts racing, my emotions tangled beyond easy explanation.
Because the truth had finally settled in.
This wasn't about him watching me fall anymore.
It was about whether I was brave enough to step forward — knowing exactly who was watching now.