Now I know.
Liana
It was almost 8 p.m.
I stood at the front gate for a full minute before pressing the bell.
The sky was dark, but the porch light was on.
I could've texted. Could've made an excuse.
But instead— I just stood there.
In jeans and the soft cardigan Alex made me borrow.
Not dressed up. Not like last time.
Just… me.
The door opened.
Elias froze in the frame.
He wasn't in uniform.
Just a plain black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. Hair damp, like he'd just showered.
He looked—
God.
He looked tired. And unfairly good.
His brows drew together. "Liana?"
"Hey." I forced a breath. "I think I left something."
His eyes scanned me. "What?"
"My sweatshirt," I said, trying to sound casual. "The gray one. Might be in the laundry?"
A pause.
Then: "Right."
He stepped back to let me in.
I walked into the house. Same smell. Same quiet. Same low hum of the hallway fan.
But it felt different. Or maybe I did.
Elias disappeared into the laundry room.
I waited in the kitchen, hands clenched into fists.
What am I doing?
Before I could spiral further, he came back.
Held up the sweatshirt. "This one?"
I nodded.
He handed it over.
Our fingers brushed.
Again.
Same static. Same silence.
I almost backed out. Almost mumbled thanks and bolted.
But then he said, too softly—
"You okay?"
I looked up.
Something cracked.
I should've said yes. Instead, I asked, "Are you?"
His jaw clenched. He didn't answer.
He just stepped forward. Half a step.
I didn't move. Neither did he.
The sweatshirt was still in my arms.
His fingers barely touching the hem.
The tension between us— sharp and breathless.
He whispered, "You did this on purpose, didn't you?"
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer.
His voice low. Dangerous. "You left it here."
I swallowed. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did."
My heart pounded.
"You wanted to come back."
His hand brushed my elbow. Barely.
"You wanted me to see you."
I couldn't breathe.
"And now you're standing in my kitchen, wearing that look you wear when you're trying not to run—"
I whispered, "I'm not running."
Silence.
A charged, unbearable beat of silence.
He looked at me like he was drowning.
"I'm trying so damn hard," he said. "Not to touch you."
My hands shook. "Why?"
He closed the distance.
Our foreheads almost touched.
"Because if I do…" His breath hitched. "I don't know if I'll stop."
I dropped the sweatshirt.
Lifted my hand.
Let it rest against his chest. His heart was a war drum.
"I'm not asking you to stop."
He looked wrecked. "Liana…"
"I'm here."
That broke him.
His arms wrapped around me, fierce and desperate, like the dam had finally cracked.
He didn't kiss me. But he held me.
Held me like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
And I held him back.
Not because I was broken. But because I wasn't afraid anymore.
Not of him. Not of this.
Just of what might happen if we let go.