Max and my flat is loud - music low, people laughing, glasses clinking - but somehow {{user}} is louder without saying a word.

She’s sitting on the arm of the sofa across the room, talking to Pietra, hair falling over her shoulder, head tilted just enough to make it look effortless. Everyone likes her. Everyone thinks she’s brilliant, funny, warm.

Everyone except me.

She looks up and catches me staring. Her expression tightens instantly, like it’s instinct. Like hating me is muscle memory.

She mouths, What? I shake my head. She rolls her eyes.

And that should be the end of it. But it never is.

I drift toward the kitchen, mostly to escape the pressure building in my chest. Max follows, nudging me with his elbow.

“You good?” “Fine.” He snorts. “Right. Make yourself believe that.”

I don’t answer because I can’t explain it. I can’t articulate the feeling I’m going through - the way my nerves spark every time she’s close, the way I try to convince myself I don’t care, the way I fail every single time.

And tonight, that truth sits heavy behind my ribs.

When I step back into the living room, she’s suddenly there, blocking my path. Arms crossed. Chin up. The usual war stance.

“You’re hovering.” She says. “I live here.” I shoot back.

“Well, you’re hovering near me.” “Trust me, that’s not on purpose.”

She glares, but her eyes give her away. She’s tired. Frustrated. Maybe a little hurt. And I know that look too well - she hates that she still reacts to me, hates that she wants something from me but can’t stand the fact that she does.

“You okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Her breath wobbles - subtle, barely there, but I catch it.

Her walls come up instantly. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Don’t pretend you care.”

I swallow hard. “I’m not pretending.” She laughs, sharp and cold. “You make everything worse.” “No,” I say quietly. “I think you make everything complicated.”

That cracks something in her. She looks away, blinking fast and it hits me again - the fear behind her anger. She’s scared to be lonely, especially at night. I know it. I’ve seen it in those moments when her friends leave the room and she suddenly withdraws, like silence is too dangerous to be alone with.

And I’m scared too. Scared that if she walks away now, I’ll miss her like I always do. Scared that I can’t afford this feeling but can’t kill it either.

She steps back, like she wants to leave, but I move without thinking, blocking the doorframe she’s trying to escape through.

“Lando.” She says warningly. “Just..wait.” My voice drops. “Please.”

She freezes. No one calls her out like this. No one asks her to stay. She searches my face like she’s waiting for the joke, the punchline. But it doesn’t come.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She whispers.

Because I can’t hold this in anymore. Because it’s killing me. Because I’ve spent months trying to find a reason to push her away - and every time I get close, she does something small and human and perfect and I’m right back where I started.

“I can’t walk away from you,” I admit. “Even when I should. Even when you make me insane.”

She shakes her head, but her breathing changes - faster, uneven.

“This is a mistake.” She murmurs. “Probably.” I step closer. “But I’m tired of lying. To you. To myself.”

Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second. A quiet betrayal.

“You hate that you want me,” I say softly. “I see it.” Her jaw clenches. “And you don’t?” I exhale, shaky and real. “I’m terrified of how much.”

She shuts her eyes like the truth physically hurts.

And then - A whisper, barely audible: “Lando..don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing anything to you.” My voice cracks. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re worth it. And I know it. And nothing - distance, time, all this..shit between us - nothing has changed my mind.”

She opens her eyes slowly, like she’s afraid of what she’ll find.

“Why?” She breathes.

I could walk away. I should.

Instead, I step closer until our breaths hit the same air.

“Because I’d die for you.”