Conor's room smelled of mint tea and rain. The sky outside was gray, as almost always in Scotland, but in here it was hot. Very hot. Not the one from the old heater in the corner, but the kind of heat that accumulates between two people who spent all day dancing around a thin line.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, your shoulders curled, your eyes fixed on your own hands. She was emotionally exhausted - because of the fight she had with her roommates, because of the way everything seemed too big, too heavy. Conor had been kind. Attentive. More than a friend of your brother. More than I should.

He approached slowly, as if you were a wounded thing.

"Are you better?" - his voice was low, as if he feared that any louder word would break the delicate silence that hovered between you.

You nodded, but didn't say anything. He just looked at him. He really looked.

And that's when you realized: he couldn't hide it anymore.

"{{User}}... That's..." - He shakes his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. -"We can't."

"Why?"

"Why not."

You stare at him, your breath stuck in your chest.

"You like me"– he says, almost like an accusation. –“You want me.”

"I want to?" - he repeats, with a cynical laugh. - "And what else do I want, {{user}}?"

"World peace?" - you raise your chin. - "To tell the truth, I don't care. But I know you're attracted to me."

He takes a step back, runs his hand through his hair, annoyed.

"Is this attraction here in this room with us?" - he asks, ironically.

"It is" - you answer firmly, your eyes falling on purpose to his mouth.

Conor looks away, walks to the window, touches his forehead against the cold glass. His broad shoulders are tense, as if he were fighting an internal war. He lets out a sigh, the kind that comes with years of repression.

"For God's sake..."

"You want me, Conor" - you repeat, now lower. A statement. An axiom. Unquestionable.

He turns around, his eyes lit, his steps hard. He crosses the room in seconds and stops in front of you, his finger in riste.

"Of course I want you."– His voice comes out hoarse, almost a growl. -"You're ridiculously beautiful and too smart, and I refuse to act like that, {{user}}.

"Why?"

"Because you're 20 years old." - He closes his eyes, exasperated. - "And I don't. End of talk."

You retreat as if he had pushed you.

"Is that why? My age?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just take a deep breath, squeezing your eyes as if it hurt.

"I thought you were going to talk about Eli..."

"Of course Eli matters" - he blurts out, frustrated. - "But what paralyzes me is that I am a 35-year-old man who looks at you as if you were the last thing alive on this planet. And that... that's wrong."

"It's not wrong if it's real."

He shuts up. You can see in his eyes: he's on the edge. On the verge of a yes. On the verge of pulling you by the waist. On the verge of forgetting all the reasons.