The rain was tapping gently against the window, the room dim except for the amber glow of the old lamp on Patrick’s desk. Clothes were scattered in careless heaps on the floor, the remains of comfort turned complication.

She sat on the edge of his bed, his shirt slipping off one shoulder, her hair still damp from the shower she didn’t ask to use. She looked small. Quiet. But her hands were clenched in her lap.

Patrick leaned against the dresser, shirtless, arms crossed but not closed off. Watching her. Waiting.

She didn’t look up when she said it.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“This,” she gestured between them, vaguely. “Friends with… whatever this is.”

His jaw tensed. He nodded slowly, lips pressing into a line. “Alright.”

That caught her off guard. Her eyes flicked up to his. “Alright?”

He shrugged, but the motion was stiff, forced. “If that’s what you want.”

She hesitated, then stood up, tugging the shirt higher on her shoulder. “It’s not—It’s not that I don’t want you. I just…” Her voice wavered, eyes flicking toward the floor again. “I don’t think I can do it without it hurting.”

Patrick’s brows drew together, his breath shallow now. “Why?”

She looked at him then. Really looked. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Rain kept tapping at the window.

Patrick exhaled through his nose, quiet, sharp. Then he pushed off the dresser, crossing the room slowly, carefully—like if he moved too fast, she might vanish.

When he reached her, he dipped his head low, voice rough.

“How can I be your friend…” His fingers brushed against hers. “When I know the way you taste?”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve tried,” he whispered, staring down at her mouth like it hurt to look at it. “Tried to pretend it’s casual. But it’s not. Not for me. Hasn’t been since the first time.”

She blinked rapidly, her walls cracking like wet paper.

Patrick stepped closer, cupped her cheek like it was fragile and holy. “You say you’re in love with me like it’s a reason to stop.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

He kissed her then—not hungry, not rushed—just aching. Like he’d been waiting to love her out loud.

And maybe now, finally, he could.