Chapter 25 - Chapter 25 — The First Time He Didn’t Walk Away

The day after the rain felt strangely quiet, as if the whole campus knew something had happened between us. I woke with the memory of his hand around mine—warm, trembling, reluctant to let go—and the silence he left behind. All morning, I expected a message from him. Something simple. Something polite. Something distant. But nothing came. I tried not to let it bother me, but every time my phone buzzed, I felt a spark of hope that was immediately crushed. By noon, I gave up pretending I wasn't thinking about him and walked to the café. When I pushed the door open, he was at the counter, back turned, sorting cups. For a moment, I thought maybe he didn't see me. But without turning around, he said softly, "You're here." My heartbeat stuttered. He turned then, slow and cautious, as if bracing himself. Drops of dried rain still clung to his jacket sleeves, faint marks from last night. "Hi," I said. My voice sounded too small. His eyes softened. "Hi." That simple word felt too intimate. I approached the counter. "You didn't text me." "I know," he said quietly. "I didn't know what to say." "You could've said anything." "That's exactly the problem," he murmured. "Anything I say lately feels like a mistake." "Last night wasn't a mistake." He looked down, jaw tightening. "It wasn't," he admitted. "That's why I'm trying so hard to be careful today." He swallowed. "I don't trust myself around you right now." The honesty knocked the air out of me. The café was empty; we were alone. He leaned against the counter, fingers curling around the edge as if grounding himself. "I've been thinking all morning," he said. "Thinking about the rain. And you. And how close I came to—" He cut himself off. I stepped closer. "To what?" His breath faltered. "…To crossing a line I wouldn't be able to uncross." "I told you," I whispered, "I didn't want you to pull away." "And I told you," he said, voice low and strained, "that scares me." His eyes lifted then, locking onto mine with a mixture of longing and fear. "Because when you look at me like that…" His voice dropped, almost breaking. "I don't want to stop." Silence settled between us—thick, charged, trembling. I reached across the counter, my fingers lightly brushing his wrist. His breath caught hard. But this time, he didn't pull back. Slowly, very slowly, he turned his hand and let his palm meet mine. Not accidental. Not momentary. Intentional. His voice was barely audible. "I shouldn't do this." "Then let go," I whispered. He didn't. He held my hand tighter. His thumb brushed against my skin, tentative but hungry for connection. "Every time I try to walk away," he said, "I keep coming back." I stepped around the counter, closing the space between us. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. When I stood in front of him, he looked almost devastated. "This is wrong," he said weakly. "But it feels right," I whispered. His resolve cracked—visibly, painfully. His forehead gently touched mine, his breath trembling. Not a kiss. But close enough to feel like one. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," he murmured. "You make it impossible to stay away." "Then don't stay away." He exhaled shakily, and for the first time, he didn't retreat. He didn't walk off. He didn't hide. His fingers slid up to hold the back of my hand more securely. "Just… give me time," he said softly. "I don't want to ruin this." "You won't." His eyes closed. "I might." Then he opened them again—tender, conflicted, wanting. "Stay for a while," he said. "Just stay here with me." I stayed. And he never let go of my hand.