The night hadn't ended. It had only thinned—like smoke curling into the corners, refusing to leave.
Elias leaned against the balcony door, half in shadow, watching Mara breathe. The city stretched below them, its pulse steady and indifferent, but everything inside the room felt off-kilter. Too sharp. Too close.
She sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn slightly together, hands gripping the sheets like they might keep her from drifting. She wasn't looking at him. That alone said everything.
He exhaled through his nose, slow. "You're quiet."
"You like it when I'm quiet." Her voice came soft, threaded with something brittle.
"I like it when you're honest."
Her laugh cracked. "That's worse."
Elias pushed off the wall, slow like a tide rolling in. She didn't flinch. Didn't move away either. When he stopped in front of her, the space between them wasn't big enough to be safe anymore.
The storm they'd been holding back was still humming between their skin.
"You think I don't see it?" he asked.
"See what?"
He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the heat of his breath brush her cheek. "The way you tremble when I get close."
Mara's eyes flicked up to his, sharp and unsure. "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Make it sound easy."
Elias's fingers brushed her jaw, not taking, just… there. Her breath caught like it always did when his touch hovered between warmth and a promise he couldn't make. "Nothing about this is easy."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. Her hands clenched tighter in the sheets. "Then why does it feel like I can't breathe when you're near?"
"Because you don't want to."
He said it like a fact. And the thing was… she didn't argue.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic drip of rain outside. His hand slid behind her neck, fingers pressing gently into the base of her skull, grounding her—grounding himself.
She leaned forward. Just enough for her forehead to brush against his chest. A quiet surrender.
Elias closed his eyes. This wasn't a kiss. Not yet. This was that dangerous middle ground—the space between pulling back and falling apart.
His other hand hovered at her waist. He could feel every small shiver. Every unspoken plea she wouldn't say out loud. And beneath it all, his pulse was a steady, brutal drum.
She whispered into the fabric of his shirt, "You make me forget the world."
He bent his head, lips grazing the top of her hair. "Maybe that's the problem."
Mara's breath hitched, and the weight of their secret settled heavier between them. No one else knew. No one else could.
She tilted her head up then—slow, like gravity itself had shifted—and their eyes met. Not with the reckless fire of the night before. With something quieter. Something dangerous in its calm.
His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she didn't pull away.
The city could have disappeared right then. The rain could have drowned the world. It wouldn't have mattered.
He whispered, low and rough, "Tell me to stop."
But she didn't.