When we got home that evening, the air had changed.
It was as if the entire city had gone quiet—listening to us.
He took off his jacket and draped it over the couch.
I stayed where I was, holding a tension I didn't know where to place.
"Today," he said, his voice low but sharp,
"you were too close."
I didn't reply.
Sometimes silence was the clearest answer.
"Do you realize that?" he continued.
"When you get close… stopping becomes difficult."
My heart raced.
I didn't try to hide it.
I didn't say, You don't have to stop.
But I didn't step back either.
He came closer. Too close.
There was still a space between us—untouched.
"One more step," he said,
"and it would be wrong."
I lifted my head and met his gaze.
My voice was soft, but steady.
"What would be wrong?" I asked.
His eyes darkened.
This wasn't anger—
it was restrained desire.
"If I take your hand," he said,
"I know I won't pull away."
I reached out.
And then he stopped.
My hand hung in the air.
He exhaled—a long, strained breath.
"I won't do this," he said to himself.
"Not now."
I slowly lowered my hand.
But the heat between us remained.
I didn't say, Don't leave me like this.
But my heart screamed it.
He stepped back.
One step. Then another.
"Tonight," he said,
"we stay apart."
I nodded—
without saying I understood.
When he closed the door…
something inside me was still burning.