The balcony grew colder as the sun disappeared completely, leaving only dim campus lights and the quiet hum of distant traffic. We stood close, closer than we ever should have been, but neither of us moved away. His forehead was still resting against mine, his breath brushing softly across my skin.
It wasn't a kiss.
It wasn't even a touch.
But it felt far more dangerous.
"You shouldn't let me be this close," he whispered, voice trembling slightly with honesty he'd tried too long to suppress.
"Then step back," I murmured.
He didn't move.
"I can't," he said.
The admission came out like a confession, low and raw. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers curling slightly, as if he was fighting the urge to reach for me but refusing to break that final rule.
"You make everything feel… difficult," he said.
"Or maybe I make you feel alive," I whispered.
His breath caught—not loudly, but enough for me to feel it.
"Don't say things like that. I can't handle it right now."
"You asked me to come."
"And I regret it."
He paused.
"No. That's a lie. I don't regret it at all."
He finally leaned back a few inches, enough to see me clearly. In the dim light, his face looked softer, stripped of the guarded expression he always wore during the day.
"I thought distance would make this easier," he said. "But every time I step back, all I can think about is wanting you nearer."
My chest tightened. "So what do we do?"
"We don't do anything rash," he said immediately. "We don't cross a line we can't come back from. We don't let this become a mistake."
"But it doesn't feel like a mistake."
"Not to me either," he admitted. "But that's exactly why it's dangerous."
Wind brushed across the balcony, tugging lightly at my hair. He reached out instinctively—reflexively—and then pulled his hand back before touching me.
"Don't," he whispered to himself more than to me. "Don't lose control."
"You're not losing control."
He let out a quiet laugh. "You have no idea how close I am."
We stood in silence again, not uncomfortable—just heavy with everything unspoken.
Finally, he straightened up. "We should go."
But he didn't move. His eyes searched mine, like he wanted to memorize something before turning away.
"Tomorrow," he said softly. "Come after your last class."
"Your office?"
"No."
He shook his head.
"Somewhere quieter."
The words sent a small spark through my chest.
He didn't say goodbye.
He just walked away slowly, stopping once at the end of the balcony to glance back at me—an unreadable expression in his eyes.
A promise.
A warning.
Both.
And I knew then:
We were too far in to turn back.