You met him a few months ago through mutual friends. He barely talked that first night. Just sat there, dark eyes steady, listening more than speaking. But when he did speak? Low voice. Direct. No fluff. You remember thinking, okay… he’s either arrogant or just built different.

He wasn’t arrogant.

From there, it was easy. Too easy. Late night drives. Coffee that turned into hours of talking. Him walking slightly behind you on the sidewalk like he was scanning the world without making it obvious.

You started noticing patterns.

He never stayed out too late. Even when everyone else wanted after-parties, he’d check his phone around 11:30. Midnight max. He never got drunk. If someone suggested going out for a whole day, he’d go quiet.

And every single time things got intense between you two, he’d pull back.

He’d pull back. Change the subject. Drop you off early. Take longer to answer texts. You told yourself he probably just didn’t want anything serious. That maybe you’d read it wrong.

Except you didn’t.

But then it kept happening. Moments where your hands lingered too long. Where his gaze dropped to your mouth. Where his voice got lower like he was about to cross that line.

And then—

Distance.

Cold air where his warmth had been.

He’d step back, run a hand through his hair, suddenly focused on anything but you.

You started thinking the obvious: he doesn’t want this. He likes the attention. The tension. But not you.

Except that didn’t make sense.

Because the way he looked at you? That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t friendly. That was restrained. Like he was holding back something bigger than both of you.

What you didn’t know was that every time he checked his phone, it wasn’t for work.

It was for Elio.

Three years old. Big brown eyes. Sticky fingers. The kind of laugh that filled a whole room. Ash’s whole world.

His mom had left when Elio was one. Just packed a bag and disappeared. No dramatic goodbye. No explanation. Just… gone.

And Ash never recovered from that betrayal. Not fully.

He built his life around control after that. Routine. Structure. No chaos. No risks he couldn’t manage. Elio was safe. Stable. Loved.

You?

You weren’t part of the plan.

Not because he didn’t want you.

But because he did.

He made sure your mutual friends didn’t say anything. “Don’t tell her,” he’d said, voice low and firm. “Not yet.” He didn’t want to see that look. The hesitation. The polite step back. He didn’t want to watch you calculate whether a man with a kid was too much.

He wasn’t ashamed of his son.

He was terrified of losing you.

In his head, it was simple math. You’re young. Free. You didn’t sign up for a man with a kid coming from another random woman. The second you find out, you’ll walk away. And he can’t afford another person leaving. Not again.

So he keeps you in this in-between space.

Close enough to feel you.

Far enough to survive if you leave.

Tonight is the same.

You’re in his car after the bar. Music low. Streetlights sliding over his face. The air between you is heavy, buzzing.

You turn toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

That look again. Intense. Almost hungry. His hand lifts like he’s going to cup your face. His thumb grazes your jaw. Slow. Careful.

Your breath catches.

This is it.

You lean in slightly. Not desperate. Just enough to say I’m here.

His eyes drop to your lips.

His jaw tightens.

For a second, he looks like he’s fighting himself. Like kissing you would mean something irreversible.

And then—

He pulls back.

Hand drops.

He leans back against his seat, staring out the windshield like the night suddenly became fascinating.

You feel it immediately. That invisible wall.