"So… what should we do now?" I try to keep my voice light, as if nothing has happened. Even though inside—everything burns, everything feels new.
"You tell me… what do you want to do?" she counters, hesitant, answering a question with a question. Her voice trembles, and in that awkwardness is something achingly familiar. Like we are both learning, for the first time, how to be truly close—without games.
I smirk softly and stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles. Goosebumps prickle my skin—not from cold, but from exhaustion, deep and sweet.
"I wanna sleep," I admit. "Let's sleep together. You okay with that? Or should I take the couch?"
My tone is calm, but laced with quiet knowing—like I already guess her answer but want to give her the choice anyway. Not because I doubt. Because I respect it.
Rebel Girl lifts her head, looks at me, and for a second, she is that bold, self-assured girl I fell for again.
"No," quieter but firmer. "Get in here. We'll sleep together."
Her words warm me from the inside. Not just an invitation to bed—an invitation to stay. No masks. No tension. No lies.
I circle the bed, lift the blanket on the other side, and slide in next to her. The mattress dips under our weight, the pillows smelling like her shampoo and something else… her.
I turn to face her, wrapping around her from behind—careful, gentle. My arms loop her waist, pulling her closer, like I am saying: I'm here. I'm not letting go. Her body is warm, soft, so familiar. I feel her heartbeat against my chest, hear it slow as her breathing evens out.
"Mmm…" A quiet sigh, but she doesn't resist.
The awkwardness still lingers between us, but it doesn't weigh us down—instead, it makes the moment fragile, tender. After what happens… there is no point pretending anymore.
She doesn't speak, just lays her hand over mine where it rests on her stomach. Her fingers tighten slightly, like an answer: I'm here too. I'm not leaving either.
And like that, silent and tangled together, we fall asleep.
Not just near each other.
Together.
I wake to a light touch—Katrin's fingers tracing through my hair, as if weaving an invisible thread between us. The slow, warm strokes send shivers down my spine, something simple yet deeply intimate. For a moment, the world outside us vanishes—there is only her, me, and the soft morning light.
When I open my eyes, she is there: propped on one elbow, watching me. Her gaze holds a new, quiet tenderness I haven't seen before. Every movement is deliberate, like she fears breaking this fragile peace.
"Hey," I grin, dragging the word out, tugging her wrist playfully—just enough to throw her off balance.
But before she can topple, I catch her shoulders and pull her against me. Her body melts into the motion, trusting, warm. My lips find hers—soft, still sleep-heavy. The world blurs, thoughts dissolving into nothing but her: her breath, her skin, her scent.
She huffs but doesn't resist. That little pride of hers, always paired with defiance, now seems fragile. Almost soft.
"You could've just asked. I'd have kissed you myself," she murmurs, voice laced with mock offense—but the usual confidence is missing.
"Why?" My fingers trail down her spine, feeling every muscle tense under my touch, every goosebump rise. "So you could get flustered and chicken out?"
My tone is teasing, but underneath it is the same warmth I see in her eyes. Katrin laughs, but it isn't her usual sharp sound—it's quiet, delayed, like she just realizes tenderness hides behind her own walls. A faint shiver runs through her, and it is… different.
Now she lays half on my chest, her body settling closer with every breath. My fingers comb through her hair, rough strands sliding between them like they've done this a thousand times before. She tilts her head slightly, her palm—trembling just a little—exploring my skin as if relearning it. Those hesitant touches speak louder than words. Like she searches for answers in every inch of me.
"It's just… we're so close now, my brain can't process it," Katrin admits, voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to say too much—or too little. She hides her face against my shoulder, like she is ashamed of her own emotions. "It's… hard to explain." A sigh, like the confession makes her vulnerable.
I arch a brow. My pulse picks up, but from excitement, not fear. Her honesty—even in this—strikes me, and the air between us grows thick with unspoken weight.
"You still haven't wrapped your head around the fact we actually did it?" My voice is gentle, but playful, testing the reality between us. I watch her closely, feeling the storm of emotions in her, the struggle to articulate what feels too big to name.
"Yes—I mean, no!" Her exhale is shaky, full of quiet bewilderment.
Katrin squeezes my hand, and I feel her fingers tremble—as if she still can't fully believe this is real, as if the weight of it all is too new, too vast for her to grasp.
"When you walked out of the room... completely naked... that's when it hits me," she admits, her voice fraying at the edges. "Everything you said—it happened. But now... now it's okay."
Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see gratitude—warm and bright, like sunlight breaking through clouds. It makes my pulse skip, but softly, without urgency.
"Thank you. For understanding. I thought... you wouldn't." Her exhale shudders, lips curving into a ghost of a smile. The words matter, but the way she says them matters more—raw with vulnerability, with relief that she can be this unguarded and still feel safe.
I brush my thumb along her cheekbone, her skin leaning into my touch like a flower toward light. Her gaze holds mine, warmth tangled with faint fear, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans closer, as if this—us—is the anchor she's searching for.
"I'm not as clever as you," I murmur, no irony in it. "But if you try to explain instead of hiding... I'll get it. And I'm not talking about the blanket. I mean everything. No secrets, no guessing. We sit down, we talk, we figure it out. No screaming matches."
I need her to know I'm not just here for the easy moments. I'm here to listen.
Rebel Girl goes still. Then a nod, so slight I might've missed it—but something in her eyes shifts, like a lock clicking open. "I agree," she whispers, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of a vow.
Silence settles between us, thick with something fragile and new. No walls. Just this: her breath syncing with mine, my palm cradling her jaw, the unspoken things louder than any confession.
I can't help it. My lips find hers again, but this kiss is different—slow, sure, a language without words. When I pull back, the truth spills out before I can stop it.
"I love you."
The words hang there, heavy and bright. Katrin doesn't speak. Her silence is a blade twisting in my ribs, sharper than any rejection.
"You don't have to say it back," I say, voice low but firm. "But if you never will—if this isn't going where I hope—tell me. Don't let me wonder."
I can't live in the limbo of maybe. Even if the truth guts me, I'd rather know.
Her fingers tighten around mine. A small thing, but it sends my heart racing. There is something in that grip—hesitation, fear, but also a refusal to let go.
"I can't," she finally says, the words dragged from somewhere deep. "You matter to me, but I can't. We can keep doing... this. Just don't wait for an answer. I'm sorry."
The apology tastes bitter, but her honesty is a balm.
"Do you want me?" I ask, shifting the weight. "Not as a friend. As a man."
Her exhale is almost a laugh. "Yes. Friends don't fuck like that." The bluntness is pure Katrin, but her voice wavers, like she fears I'll mistake this for cruelty.
I don't. The admission—that she craves me even if she can't name what else this is—warms the hollow places in my chest.
"Then that's enough for now," I say, pressing my forehead to hers. Regret lingers, but no resentment. This is her truth. And for today, it is mine too.
I can't ask more of her than what she can give me, and maybe even that is enough. But deep down, I still don't know if it's enough for our relationship to last. With each passing day, I grow more aware that the future of our relationship depends on how her feelings change—and how patient and accepting I can be of them as they are.
I stay silent, trying not to think about what comes next. But the fear doesn't let go.
"You don't have much time left for what you want. Any plans?" Her question carries a light hint, as if she's trying to steer the conversation into calmer waters. But her gaze is still a little tense, and I know the question has left a mark on her.
I perk up, glad for the chance to talk about something light, free from worries and uncertainty. My eyes brighten, and I feel myself shaking off what had been haunting me just minutes ago. It's like a breath of fresh air after staying too long in the shadows.
"I've been thinking about dates. We could go to the greenhouse, or just take a walk—maybe dinner first. Or an escape room—I read there are some cool setups. Even better—the planetarium. We could look at the stars." I speak quickly because I'm excited, maybe even a little tangled in my own ideas, but it all sounds so alive that I don't want to stop. I want her to feel how much it matters to me—spending time with her, creating moments of joy and ease.
Katrin breaks into a smile, and the sudden light on her face seems to eclipse the pain in her eyes from just moments ago. It's like a bright beam cutting through the clouds.
"Wow, so many ideas! I had no idea." Her voice is warm, filled with surprise and admiration, as if she's only now seeing something more in me—not just a man she spends time with.
"But tomorrow—" I move closer, carefully playing with a strand of her red hair, feeling its warmth and softness. "—I'll set up another home date for us. That okay?"
"Of course," her eyes spark with curiosity, like two little flames. "I'm guessing it's another surprise?"
"Yes."
"Can't wait," my girl leans into me, her voice softer, like someone who's longed for something special. "Lately, I've started loving your surprises. Yeah, at first I was skeptical… but then I liked them so much that I wouldn't mind doing them again someday."
Her words are full of acknowledgment, and I feel another bridge forming between us. I sense her trust, her desire to stay close, and that matters more than anything.
"My girl—" I can't help myself, and my lips brush softly against hers.
The kiss isn't just gratitude for her warmth—it's everything tender and caring I feel for her. Strangely, her words and her presence give me strength and certainty.
"We still have so much ahead. I'd relive any of our dates with you." My words carry more than just a promise. It's confidence—that nothing we've been through will fade, that this is only the beginning, and we have endless moments ahead to share.
"Me too," her smile is bright and sincere, but a playful glint flashes in her eyes, as if she's already plotting something. Then, raising a sly brow, she adds: "So… what's tomorrow?"
I stay quiet, not answering right away, because if I say a word, I might ruin the surprise. And I don't want that. I know how much she loves the unexpected, how she treasures these moments when I do something just for her—to make her feel special.
A surprise is a surprise. That's the rule I follow. It has to be something she'd never guess. That little suspense, that hint of mystery—I know it adds a thrilling note to us.
Katrin looks at me curiously but doesn't press. The silence between us isn't tense—it's full of anticipation. Like a game where every moment counts.