Elves'
Kane asked if I liked Italian food, and my answer came out before I even thought about it.
"Yes."
It wasn't just agreement—it was enthusiasm. The fact that he'd guessed correctly caught me off guard in the best way.
My favorites are Chicken Scarpariello and Italian Casserole with Baked Rice and Steamed Clams. They're comfort disguised as cuisine—structured, balanced, dependable.
When I mentioned that, his smile stretched wide, the kind that makes you wonder if he's plotting or pleased.
"The restaurant I'm taking you to serves both," he said. "It's in the tallest hotel in Makati—famous for its food."
That did it. Excitement surged through me like caffeine on an empty stomach. I tried to stay composed, but my hands betrayed me—tapping my thigh, adjusting my sleeve, fixing the nonexistent crease on my pants.
Kane noticed, of course. His glance—half amusement, half quiet fondness—was enough to make me freeze mid-fidget.
I flashed him a sheepish grin and turned to the window, pretending the blur of city lights required my full attention. The rhythmic motion calmed me, until—a truck's horn shattered the air. The sound was too loud, too sharp, slicing straight through my nerves. My hands flew to my ears before I even processed the movement. The world tunneled. My heartbeat spiked.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes—frustrating, involuntary. Noise like that always hit me wrong, like static inside my skull.
Then—pressure. Warm, steady. Kane's hand on my shoulder.
"Elves, are you okay?" His voice softened around the words, low enough to cut through the noise.
I blinked rapidly, forcing focus.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My therapist's voice replayed in my head like a mantra.
After a few moments, my breathing leveled out. I opened my eyes and found Kane watching me, worry etched across his face—but not the uncomfortable, uncertain kind I was used to. His gaze was steady, patient, warm. No judgment. No awkwardness. Just quiet concern.
"I'm fine," I said, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near shaky composure. "It was just... one of my panic attacks."
Kane didn't move right away. That's when I noticed the car wasn't moving either—he'd pulled over. The realization hit me harder than the panic had. He'd stopped everything, just to make sure I could breathe.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, his tone soft but firm, the kind that didn't demand answers, just offered space. "We can postpone the date if you need to rest."
I shook my head quickly. "No. Please. Let's not. I'm fine now."
It wasn't pride—it was purpose. This was my first dinner with someone I genuinely like, and I refused to let my fear ruin the night.
He studied me for a second longer before nodding.
"Okay," he said quietly, starting the car again. "Let's proceed."
As we drove, I caught him glancing at me from time to time—quick checks, subtle but constant. Each time our eyes met, I smiled, small and deliberate, my silent reassurance that I was all right.
The rest of the ride passed in a calm, steady rhythm. By the time we reached the hotel—one of the tallest in Makati, gleaming with impossible confidence—the tension had dissolved into something gentler.
When we stepped out of the car, Kane offered me his hand. I hesitated for a heartbeat, worried he might feel how fast my pulse was racing—but the urge to fully experience the evening with him won out over my nerves.
I smiled, slipped my hand into his, and he gently linked our arms. The contact was light, polite, but enough to make my chest tighten in that unfamiliar, fluttering way I was still learning to name.
Together, we walked toward the hotel's grand entrance, its lights gleaming like something out of a dream.
We were only a few steps away when a pair of car headlights flared directly into my eyes—sharp, white, merciless. The sting made me flinch.
I stopped instinctively, forcing Kane to pause beside me. My vision blurred around the edges, and I blinked hard, shaking my head slightly to dispel the glare.
Taking off my glasses, I rubbed my eyelids carefully, giving my eyes a moment to recover from the assault of light. When the burn finally subsided, I inhaled deeply, slow and measured, before sliding my glasses back on.
After a few more blinks, the world settled into focus again. I turned to Kane and gave a small, apologetic smile—my silent signal that I was all right to continue.
He smiled back, no trace of impatience in his expression. That steady warmth in his eyes smoothed the edge of my embarrassment as he guided us inside, his quiet composure wrapping around me like a steadying hand.
As we walked, I caught several guests sneaking glances in our direction—their faces a blend of surprise and quiet curiosity. Naturally, I assumed it was because of Kane. His looks had that unfair kind of symmetry that made people turn twice without realizing it.
"They're looking at you because you're handsome," I whispered, unable to hide the hint of pride in my tone. It still felt unreal—being on a date with someone like him.
Kane stopped mid-step, turning to me with a slightly puzzled expression.
"They're looking at you, Elves," he said. "You're famous, remember?"
Oh. Right. I am famous.
The realization hit me like a delayed echo. My mind stalled for a beat as I looked around again, seeing the scene through a different lens. The whispers. The subtle pointing. It wasn't him they were reacting to—it was me.
Heat climbed up my neck, settling in my cheeks.
Of course. How could I forget something so obvious?
I let out a quiet, awkward laugh, adjusting my glasses like that might hide my face. The weight of self-consciousness pressed down on my chest, followed by the familiar flicker of doubt that always arrived uninvited.
What if he thought my obliviousness was strange? What if he decided, like others had before, that I was too much work—too peculiar, too different?
Kane's gentle tap on my hand snapped me out of the spiral. I turned to him, and that reassuring smile of his dissolved every lingering trace of doubt.
"Ignore them," he said softly. "Just enjoy the night."
Simple words. But they landed like a lifeline, pulling me back to center.
I nodded quickly, grateful, and let him guide me toward the elevator.
We rode up in a comfortable silence, his arm still linked with mine. My heart was racing—not with panic this time, but anticipation. It was new, electric in a way I didn't quite know how to contain.
Even as the elevator climbed, his hand didn't leave mine. The steady warmth of his palm was grounding, a quiet reminder that I wasn't alone in this moment that felt too big for my chest.
When the doors slid open, a server was already waiting. Kane spoke briefly with him, his tone low and polite, and soon we were being led down a short hallway to a private dining room.
The moment we stepped inside, I stopped short—an involuntary gasp slipping past my lips.
The view was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a masterpiece: lights sprawling endlessly, glittering against the night sky. Manila looked softer from up here, less chaotic, more like a constellation come to life.
I walked straight to the window, eager, almost breathless, as my eyes swept across the dazzling sprawl of lights below. A quiet joy rose in my chest—rare and startling. I wasn't used to moments like this. My life was built on schedules and scripts, precision and performance. Beauty didn't usually fit neatly into my routine. But tonight... it did. And it felt like a gift I hadn't realized I'd been missing.
Turning back to Kane, I gave him a genuine smile—one that said thank you without words. He met my gaze with that calm warmth of his, and for a fleeting second, silence said everything.
Then he excused himself to speak with the server waiting discreetly by the door. I lingered by the window a moment longer, memorizing the glow of the city and how small everything looked from up here. Perspective was comforting. Predictable. Ordered.
When I finally joined him at the table, he looked up, and our eyes met. I smiled—shy, unguarded—and felt heat rush to my cheeks. I couldn't believe I was letting him see me like this: unfiltered, almost childlike in my excitement. But he didn't seem to mind. If anything, his expression softened, as if he was quietly pleased by it.
He grinned, resting his chin on one hand, his gaze fixed on me. The way he looked—steady, unwavering—made my pulse skip in self-defense.
"I like your blushing face," he said quietly, eyes never leaving mine.
His words sent another wave of warmth straight to my ears. My face was practically on fire now.
"You're overwhelming me with your staring," I admitted, my voice a soft mix of honesty and helplessness. I dropped my gaze to my hands in my lap, hoping the tablecloth could somehow shield me from his intensity.
He didn't respond, which made me glance up nervously—and that's when I realized he was already standing beside me. Before I could react, he crouched down until we were eye level. The sudden closeness sent my pulse into overdrive, thundering in my ears.
Instinctively, I turned my head away, but his fingers brushed my chin—gentle yet firm—tilting it back toward him until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
His gaze searched mine, deep and focused, the kind of look that made breathing feel like a skill I hadn't quite mastered.
"Breathe," he said softly, his tone calm and steady.
Only then did I notice how tight my chest felt. I let out a shaky exhale, followed by a few short, uneven breaths, trying to find rhythm under his quiet watchfulness.
"I just want to appreciate the beauty of your eyes up close," he murmured, voice low—almost reverent. "And I can't let you pass out on me. So, breathe... and let me enjoy this moment."
The mix of tenderness and quiet command in his tone left me defenseless.
I tried to follow his lead—inhale, exhale—but maintaining eye contact felt impossible. The longer he looked at me, the more the world seemed to narrow until it was just that gaze, that warmth, that impossible stillness between us.
A knock at the door broke the spell. The server's interruption was nothing short of a rescue, and as Kane released my chin and stepped back, I silently thanked fate for its perfect timing.
My heart was still hammering, and I was fairly certain I'd been about three seconds away from fainting.
While the server prepared the table, I risked a glance at Kane. He caught my eye and offered a warm smile—steady, gentle, infuriatingly disarming. My stomach fluttered in response, and I managed a shy, awkward smile in return, hoping he couldn't see how unsteady I felt.
Once the table was set and the server had left, silence settled between us again. I reached for the Chicken Scarpariello a little too quickly, and my fingers brushed against his. The contact jolted through me like static. I drew my hand back at once, cheeks burning.
Kane chuckled softly.
I looked up, startled—and then confused. He was calmly serving himself, that small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was in on some joke I didn't understand. Irritation prickled at the edges of my composure.
Subtle humor has never been my strong suit. When I can't decode someone's expression, my brain fills in the blanks—and it rarely fills them kindly.
Before I knew it, I was on my feet, frustration bubbling over. My footsteps hit the floor a little too hard as I turned toward the door. But before I could reach it, his hand caught mine—firm, but not harsh—and he turned me back to face him.
His hands came to rest lightly on my shoulders, his expression open and confused, not mocking.
"What did I do?" he asked, brows knit in genuine bewilderment.
"I found your grin rude," I snapped, the words spilling out sharper than I intended. "I thought you were secretly making fun of me."
I tried to pull away, but his hands tightened slightly—not to restrain, but to reassure. The tension in his face eased, confusion giving way to understanding.
"I wasn't laughing at you," he said gently, his tone low and steady. "I smiled because... you amused me. You get flustered so easily, and it's endearing."
His fingers loosened, but one hand remained around mine—warm, grounding.
"I just like the thought that someday you might feel comfortable enough to touch me without hesitation," he added softly. "That's all I meant."
The warmth of his voice settled deep in my chest, pushing against the embarrassment I'd been holding onto. My earlier irritation crumbled under the weight of his sincerity.
Guilt crept in next—quiet but sharp. I hated that I'd misread him, that I'd jumped to conclusions instead of asking. It was a bad habit, one that always seemed to build walls faster than I could take them down.
My head lowered, shame prickling at the back of my eyes until tears blurred my vision. A small, choked sound escaped me before I could swallow it back.
Kane noticed instantly. He reached out, tilting my chin up with gentle fingers. His gaze softened when he saw the tears. Without a word, he brushed them away, his touch careful, patient.
The tenderness of the gesture made my throat tighten. It wasn't pity—it was understanding. Quiet, wordless understanding.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't feel judged or dissected. Just... seen. And safe.
From that moment on, I let myself lean into his care—tentatively at first, then with a kind of quiet surrender. His presence steadied me in ways I hadn't expected. Every small gesture, every patient pause, told me I could trust him not to hurt me.
When he guided me back to my seat, I followed without resistance. Sitting down, I made a silent decision: to start over.
Dinner passed in calm companionship. We didn't need to fill the space with words; the occasional smile, the steady rhythm of shared glances, was enough. He never crossed boundaries—never startled me, never touched without asking. That respect made it easy to breathe, to be.
After the meal, he ordered wine and suggested we visit the roof deck. I simply nodded, and we made our way to the elevator. The silence between us felt heavier now—not uncomfortable, but charged. My nerves twisted in quiet panic, afraid I might say the wrong thing and undo the fragile peace we'd built. The idea of disappointing him—it clung to me like static.
Somewhere along the way, without my noticing, he'd slipped past every wall I'd built. And that scared me more than I cared to admit.
When the elevator doors opened, he gestured for me to step out first. I hesitated, uncertain if he'd follow. He must've sensed it, because he stepped ahead instead, turned back, and extended his hand toward me. His expression was warm, reassuring, impossibly patient.
I took his hand.
He guided me to a cozy seating area overlooking the city. Below us, the lights shimmered like a second sky. The cool night breeze brushed against my skin, carrying a calm I hadn't felt all evening. Kane sank into one of the couches, relaxed and at ease, and I chose the spot beside him—close enough to feel his warmth, but still safely within my comfort zone.
After a few quiet sips of wine, I noticed Kane set his glass down on the low table. He turned toward me, his eyes steady and searching, waiting for something more than small talk. When I mirrored his action, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his expression open and earnest.
"I'll wait for you to tell me what's really going on," he said softly. "I just want you to feel comfortable around me. Tell me what I can do to help with that."
His words didn't sound like a demand—they felt like an open door. A gentle invitation. A promise that I didn't have to navigate everything on my own.
I looked at him, my chest tightening as I weighed the risk.
Should I tell him the truth? Should I hand over the part of me that most people never understood, the part they either pitied or avoided?
But the sincerity in his eyes anchored me. There was no judgment there—only quiet patience. So I took a breath, the kind that shakes a little on the way out.
"Have you heard of Asperger's Syndrome?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
His brows furrowed—not in confusion, but concern—and even though that flicker of uncertainty stung, I pressed on.
"I have it," I said finally, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "It falls under the Autism Spectrum now. People usually just say I'm autistic, but they don't really understand what that means... or what it's like to live with it."
The words hung between us, raw and fragile, like a confession I'd rehearsed a thousand times but never truly spoken aloud.
He didn't say anything right away, but his silence didn't feel cold or dismissive—it felt open. Present. Like he was giving me space to speak without rushing to fill it.
Encouraged, I continued.
"My condition doesn't stop me from living a full life," I said, the words shaky but sure. "Yes, I have challenges—social things, communication things—but I still feel everything everyone else does. Pain, joy, sadness, hope, and... love. I'm just wired a little differently, and I've learned to accept that."
I paused, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "But some people... they don't try to understand. They see 'different' and assume it means 'less.' I've learned to live with that too. But I've been lucky—Josh and Justin never make me feel that way. They get me."
A small, fragile smile tugged at my lips, though my chest ached with how exposed I suddenly felt.
For a moment, Kane just looked at me. His expression gave nothing away, and every second of silence stretched unbearably long. The flicker of hesitation in his eyes made my stomach twist. I braced myself—ready to retreat, to spare us both the awkwardness—when he suddenly smiled.
"Thank you for trusting me with that," he said quietly.
His tone was steady, warm, and painfully sincere.
"I'm sorry if I've ever made things harder for you," he added. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you."
The kindness in his gaze stripped away the last of my fear. There was no pity there, no discomfort—just understanding.
Relief crashed over me like a wave, leaving me breathless and a little lighter than before.
Slowly, he extended his hand, palm up, like he was offering something fragile and sacred. "Can I hold your hand?"
My heart tripped over itself, but I didn't hesitate. I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine—steady, certain—and then he brought my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against my knuckles. Warmth bloomed through me, spreading fast and uncontrollably.
"I think I'm liking you a little more every second," he said with a grin that could undo entire belief systems.
Heat rushed to my face. I dropped my gaze, my lips tugging into a shy, unguarded smile.
"I... I think I like you too," I admitted, the words slipping out before my brain had a chance to censor them.
Before I could gather my thoughts, his fingers hovered near my cheek. I looked up, startled, to see his hand paused midair—asking, not assuming.
Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I reached up and guided his hand to my face, pressing it gently against my cheek. His touch was warm and grounding. His thumb traced slow, tender arcs along my skin, sending tiny shivers down my spine.
He held my gaze, unwavering, and for the first time I didn't look away.
The world fell silent—just us, the quiet hum of city lights below, and the fragile rhythm of shared breath.
I smiled faintly, proud of myself—for staying, for breathing, for not retreating.
"Can I kiss you?" he murmured, his voice a whisper that seemed to live somewhere between question and promise.
My breath caught. My pulse roared in my ears. I wasn't sure I could survive the sensation of his lips on mine—but I wanted to try.
"I... I'm not sure I can handle that," I whispered, faltering when I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. That small, honest sadness tipped my decision. "But... I think a short kiss would be bearable."
His smile returned—gentle, hesitant, grateful.
Then he leaned in.
Our lips brushed—briefly, delicately—and the world tilted. The warmth of his breath, the quiet, the weight of something new blooming between us—it was almost too much.
I held my breath and let him guide the moment, my heart beating so hard it felt like it was trying to memorize his name.
When his lips finally met mine, my heart lurched, sending a rush of heat through every nerve in my body. For a moment, everything inside me felt awake—every sense, every breath, every beat.
His kiss was gentle—tentative, patient—yet it left me breathless, acutely aware of every detail: the warmth of his mouth, the faint taste of wine, the steady rhythm of his breathing against mine. A flutter of heat stirred low in my stomach, a feeling so new it left me both exhilarated and uncertain.
It was my first kiss, and I had no idea what I was doing—but I wanted to try. So I leaned in, awkwardly mirroring his movement, only for our teeth to knock together with a dull click.
We both pulled back at once, wincing.
I rubbed my teeth carefully, half-embarrassed, half-amused, before daring to meet his eyes.
He looked startled for a beat—then burst out laughing. The sound was full and unrestrained, rich enough to make me forget my embarrassment.
I found myself laughing too, soft and sheepish.
I couldn't believe this was my first kiss—imperfect, clumsy, and utterly human. But as I watched him smile, head tilted back in genuine laughter, I knew I'd remember it for the rest of my life.
After dinner, Kane drove us back to my condo. The ride was quiet but peaceful, the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled. We walked down the hallway toward our units, side by side, when he suddenly froze—his posture shifting, alert.
He scanned the corridor like he was expecting something—or someone. Before I could ask what was wrong, he turned to me sharply, his hand gripping my shoulder, firm but not harsh.
"Go to your place and lock the door," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Don't open it for anyone except me. Understand?"
Something in his tone made my chest tighten. I nodded instinctively and hurried to my door, punching in my passcode with shaking fingers. Before stepping inside, I looked back once—he was still there, scanning the hallway, every muscle taut. Then I slipped in and locked the door behind me.
Inside, I went straight to my bedroom, crawled under the duvet, and pulled it tight around me. My body curled in on itself as I tried to steady my breathing. Whatever had spooked him was probably nothing... right? Still, my mind wouldn't stop replaying the tension in his eyes.
A knock cut through my spiraling thoughts and startled me. My heart leapt into my throat. For a second, panic took over—then his voice came, low and steady.
"Elves, it's me."
The relief hit so hard it almost hurt. Tears spilled before I could stop them. I ran to the door, unlocked it, and the moment it swung open, he pulled me into his arms.
I buried my face in his chest, the sound of his heartbeat anchoring me.
"I'm sorry for startling you," he murmured against my hair.
That simple apology broke what little restraint I had left. I sobbed harder, clinging to him as if the world outside could vanish if I held tight enough.
He didn't let go. He just stayed—quiet, steady, patient—until the tremors in my body finally eased and the storm inside me began to fade.
Once my tears subsided, he pulled back slightly, offering me a reassuring smile.
"I thought I saw someone lurking in the corner, so I had to check," he explained, his voice gentle but edged with alertness. "Sorry for scaring you."
"That must've been my stalker," I said quietly.
His expression shifted instantly—concern flashing across his face. Just saying the word stalker made my skin prickle, and he noticed.
"Let me stay with you tonight," he said—not suggesting, but insisting.
I looked at him, expecting to hesitate... but the thought of him staying didn't frighten me. In fact, it brought an odd sense of calm. With him near, the shadows felt less threatening. I nodded and stepped aside to let him in.
He moved through the living room with methodical focus—checking under the sofa, behind the center table, inside the flower vase, even glancing up at the overhead lamp and the TV. Every motion was deliberate, precise.
When he finally sat down, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
I joined him on the couch, careful to leave a few inches of polite distance.
Turning toward him, I asked, "What was that about?"
"I was checking for any spy cameras," he said simply. "If your stalker's been following you this closely, there's a chance he's planted something here."
The words made my stomach drop. Fear rippled through me, cold and sudden.
"I've never really felt watched in this part of the house," I murmured. "Unlike when I'm in the shower, where I always feel like someone's watching me—"
Before I could finish the sentence, he was already on his feet, scanning the place with sharp intent.
"Where's your shower room?" he asked, his tone clipped and focused.
"The door next to the kitchen, on your left," I replied automatically.
He didn't wait for anything more—just strode straight toward it, his movements swift and purposeful.
I heard him moving around inside, drawers opening and closing, objects shifting. Curiosity got the better of me, so I followed and stopped at the doorway, watching as he carefully inspected every item on the sink.
Then he froze, eyes narrowing at something near the ceiling. Without a word, he scanned the room, searching for something. Spotting a stool tucked under the sink, he dragged it over, stepped up, and reached toward the fluorescent light.
A second later, he pulled something free and descended slowly, his expression tight. When he opened his palm, my breath caught.
A small black device lay there—round, glassy, unmistakably a camera lens.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
His hand trembled slightly as the reality of it sank in. Then, without explanation, he strode out of the shower room. I was about to follow when he turned back abruptly, and I nearly collided with him. He caught me by the waist to steady me, his reflexes quick and sure.
My hands found his shoulders automatically.
For a heartbeat, we just stood there—close enough to feel each other's breath—before he eased back with a quiet sigh.
"I need to deal with this," he said, holding up the device. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't open the door for anyone but me, understood?"
I nodded immediately, the seriousness in his tone grounding me.
He gave me one last look—soft, lingering—and to my complete surprise, pressed a short but soft kiss to my lips before leaving.
The contact was so brief yet so disarming that by the time my brain caught up, he was already gone.
I stood frozen for a few seconds, warmth spreading across my face. Then, smiling despite the tension in my chest, I fanned my cheeks in a futile attempt to cool down.
Still flustered, I went to my room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the bed—waiting for him to return.
He returned about thirty minutes later, arms full—carrying a taser, a security baton, a baseball bat, and a small SOS alarm. Without wasting time, he asked where my room was. When I pointed, he went straight there and set everything neatly on my bedside table, placing the baseball bat within easy reach.
"This will help me sleep better knowing you have ways to defend yourself if that stalker ever tries to break in," he said, catching the questioning look on my face.
I smiled and nodded, gratitude softening the tension in my chest. Still, the moment he stepped further into my room, a wave of shyness hit me. My room had always been my safe zone—orderly, personal, off-limits—and having him here made me feel oddly exposed.
He must've sensed my unease because he hesitated too, standing awkwardly by the table like he wasn't sure what to do next.
"Josh usually stays with me when I'm scared," I blurted out, trying to fill the silence. "He lies beside me until I fall asleep. It... helps..."
The change in Kane's expression was immediate. His face darkened—not anger, exactly, but something sharp flickered behind his eyes.
"Did I say something wrong?" I asked softly, worry threading through my voice.
He didn't answer right away, and the silence made my pulse quicken.
The thought of upsetting him twisted something deep inside me. I didn't want him to leave. The fear was irrational, but real—an echo of the separation anxiety that had shadowed me since my mother moved abroad.
It had taken me years to trust people again. To trust Josh. To let Justin in.
And now, after barely any time at all, Kane had found his way past every wall I'd built.
The thought terrified me.
What would happen when we inevitably had to part ways?
Would I be able to let him go?
I studied his face, trying to read what he was thinking—but he was a wall of calm, his expression impossible to decipher.
"You and Josh are close enough to sleep together?" he asked after a long, heavy pause, his expression tightening with something that looked suspiciously like disgust.
My brows furrowed. The question confused me.
What's wrong with my best friend keeping me company when I'm scared?
He must have noticed the confusion on my face because he sighed, the tension in his shoulders softening.
"I know it probably sounds unreasonable," he admitted quietly. "But I can't help how I feel when it comes to you and Josh. I don't have the right to feel this way—not yet, at least—but I'm jealous. I don't want anyone getting too close to you."
His words hung between us, low and rough, carrying an emotion I wasn't prepared for.
I blinked, trying to make sense of it. My brain scrambled to translate the meaning behind his tone, but before I could respond, he stepped closer—slowly, carefully—testing whether I'd pull away.
I didn't.
Then, in one smooth motion, he wrapped his arms around my waist and drew me toward him.
"I like you for myself," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Only for myself. I don't want to share you with anyone—not even my brother."
His words hit like a sudden wave, disorienting and intense. Heat rushed to my face; my thoughts dissolved into static.
Gently, he brushed the hair from my forehead and removed my glasses, his fingers lingering just long enough to make my pulse stumble. His gaze locked on mine, unwavering, as his hands slid from my waist to rest against the small of my back.
"Is this okay?" he whispered.
I swallowed hard, nodding once—small, deliberate—while my heart raced fast enough to drown out everything else.
His hands slid up to my shoulders, pulling me closer until the space between us was barely a breath.
"I want to kiss you, Elves. Can I?" he murmured, his voice low and unsteady, his heartbeat thudding beneath my palm.
I couldn't look away. My hand moved on instinct, pressing lightly against his chest to feel that rhythm—uneven, human, real. The sound of his breathing, slow but trembling, filled the silence between us.
I want him, I realized.
The thought startled me, but instead of fear, it brought a strange kind of courage.
I nodded, letting the moment guide me.
His fingers found my chin, tilting it up with exquisite care—and then his lips met mine.
It was our second kiss that night, just as gentle as the first. Soft. Tentative. Careful, like he was afraid I might break if he pushed too far.
But this time, I didn't freeze. I leaned in, kissing him back—awkwardly, yes, but with intent. My body trembled, not from panic, but from something far warmer. Every instinct screamed at me to retreat, to protect myself from this unfamiliar flood of emotion—but I didn't listen. I stayed.
Maybe this was what they meant by desire, I thought, as I drew him closer and let myself fall completely into the moment.