Victoria had loved him for years — quietly, carefully, the way you love something you think you’re never meant to touch. It started small: the way Arvid always held doors open without thinking, how he’d look at people like he actually saw them. She’d told herself it was just admiration, just friendship, but the truth had always sat somewhere deeper, tucked behind every easy laugh they shared.

They grew up side by side, never out of reach but never quite close enough. Victoria dated other people, pretended she was fine, pretended that watching Arvid fall for someone else didn’t sting in a way that left her staring at her ceiling for hours. He was her almost, her what-if, her too late. Until something shifted. It wasn’t a big moment — no grand realization, no lightning strike. Just Arvid showing up at her door one evening, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, that same familiar smile that somehow looked a little different. He laughed too much, stumbled over his words, couldn’t quite meet her eyes. And then she realized: he’d caught up.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said, half teasing. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking down. “Yeah. Been thinking.”

“About what?”

“You,” he admitted, voice low. “About how long it took me to get here.”

Victoria froze. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear him.

“You’re late,” she whispered, smiling despite herself.

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, breath catching just a little. “But I’m here now.”

For a second, neither of them moved — the air heavy with everything they’d never said.