You start noticing the silence differently.

The way it settles when you’re together, heavy but careful, like neither of you trusts yourselves to speak too freely. He sits closer now—close enough that your shoulders touch when you lean back. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him even when he says nothing at all.

You wonder if he feels how loud your heartbeat gets around him.

Some nights, you catch him watching your mouth when you talk. Other nights, you’re the one tracing the line of his jaw with your eyes, imagining how it would feel under your thumb. Neither of you acts on it.

Restraint becomes its own kind of intimacy.

⸻

One evening, he walks you home.

It’s quiet. Streetlights spill gold onto the pavement. When you stop outside your door, neither of you reaches for the handle. He stands too close again—always too close, never enough.

“I think about you more than I should,” he says, voice low. Confession disguised as casual truth.

Your breath catches. “Me too.”

The air shifts. Tightens.

He lifts his hand, hesitates, then lets his knuckles brush your cheek—barely there. The touch is light, reverent, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you lean into it, just enough to let him know you want this—whatever this is becoming.

His thumb stills. His jaw tightens. You can feel the effort it takes for him not to close the distance completely.

“If I don’t stop now,” he murmurs, “I won’t.”

Your fingers curl into the front of his coat, gripping, grounding. “Then don’t.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

He leans in—so close you feel his breath against your lips. So close it hurts. His forehead rests against yours instead, and the restraint is almost unbearable.

You close your eyes.

This is worse than touching. This is everything held back.

⸻

Later, when you’re alone, you still feel him—his warmth lingering on your skin, his almost-kiss echoing in your chest. You know he’s feeling it too. You can sense the tension stretching between you, thin and trembling, waiting for one of you to finally break.

And neither of you does.

Not yet.

The story hasn’t decided who will give in first.

Neither have you.