The night stretched on.
I didn't sleep. My eyes were closed, but my mind stayed awake.
By morning, the house was still quiet.
The silence no longer felt unfamiliar.
It was the silence of sharing space with him.
When I went into the kitchen, he was there.
Making coffee.
His sleeves were rolled up. His hands were calm, but his face was tense.
He paused when he saw me.
As if he held his breath for a moment.
"Good morning," I said.
He nodded.
"You didn't sleep."
Not a question.
"Neither did you," I replied.
He poured the coffee without looking at me.
"Last night," he said,
"was the right decision."
My chest tightened slightly.
But I didn't step back.
"Which part?" I asked.
"Stopping," he said.
"Pushing you away. Stopping myself."
I looked at him.
His words were firm, but something else lived beneath them.
Fear.
"Are you afraid of me?" I asked softly.
He set the cup down and turned to face me.
"Of myself," he said.
Only a few steps separated us.
They meant nothing.
"When you're close," he continued,
"everything blurs."
My heart raced.
I didn't hide it.
"I'm here," I said.
"I'm not running."
He fell silent.
Then slowly took one step toward me.
"If I take your hand," he said,
"I won't be able to turn back."
I nodded.
"I know."
I didn't reach out.
I waited for him.
When his fingers brushed my wrist, warmth spread through me.
My breathing shifted.
But he stopped.
Didn't fully take my hand.
He closed his eyes.
Then stepped back.
"Not yet," he said.
My heart filled not with disappointment—
but anticipation.
"When?" I asked.
He opened his eyes.
His gaze was steady.
"When this city goes quiet," he said.
"When the danger ends."
I nodded, as if agreeing.
But something inside me already knew—
when that day came…
neither of us would be ready.