That night, after their talk outside the bookstore, Claire followed Daniel back to his hostel for the first time since the argument. It was quiet inside—his roommates were either out or asleep, their shared space dimly lit with the soft yellow glow of desk lamps and string lights.
He offered her tea. She nodded.
They didn't say much while the kettle boiled. But the silence this time was comforting, like a ceasefire after a long, exhausting battle.
When they finally sat on his small twin bed, legs tangled under a blanket, she watched him stir sugar into his tea without really drinking it.
"You said you haven't done this kind of relationship before," she said. "What did you mean?"
Daniel stared at the mug for a moment, then looked up. "I've had flings. A few situations that lasted a few months. But it was always surface-level. Light, fun… easy to walk away from."
"And this isn't?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head. "No. Not even close."
Claire's chest tightened. "Because it's harder or because it matters?"
"Because it matters," he said without hesitation.
She took a slow breath. The words felt like a balm on something raw.
"I've been scared," she admitted. "Of getting too close. Of caring more than the other person. Of losing myself."
Daniel reached for her hand. "I know. And I've been scared of letting someone in so much they can hurt me. But I think maybe that's how you know it's real."
Claire looked at him, her eyes soft. "We're going to mess up again, aren't we?"
He gave a lopsided smile. "Definitely. But I'd rather mess up with you than be perfect with anyone else."
That was the moment she knew she wasn't falling anymore.
She had fallen.
They spent the night curled against each other, Claire's head on his chest, Daniel tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. The room was still, except for the occasional clink of pipes in the walls and the muffled sounds of the city outside.
Neither of them slept much, but neither of them cared.
By morning, something had shifted. There was a quiet peace between them, a new understanding. The kind that can only come after surviving a storm together.
The following week, Daniel did something Claire didn't expect.
He gave her his phone.
No explanation. No preamble. Just handed it over while they sat at their usual café.
"What's this for?" she asked, confused.
"I want you to know you can trust me. No secrets. No weird texts. Nothing I'd be scared for you to see."
Claire stared at the unlocked screen, then back at him. "Daniel, I don't want to be the girl who checks her boyfriend's phone."
"And you're not," he said. "But if it makes you feel safer… I don't mind."
She didn't look through it.
She just put it down.
But something inside her healed in that small gesture.
They talked more openly after that. About boundaries. About past relationships. About how Daniel hated confrontation and Claire feared silence. They started leaving each other little "check-in" notes during the week—short texts like "How's your head today?" or "Did I say something weird last night?"
It wasn't always perfect. But they were trying.
That made all the difference.
Two weeks later, as they lay on the grass at King's Garden, surrounded by the early colors of spring, Daniel turned to her and said, "You know what I think?"
Claire raised a brow. "This should be good."
"I think love isn't just butterflies or late-night kisses or perfect dates. I think love is learning how to argue and still choosing each other the next day."
Claire stared at him.
"Did you get that from a movie?"
"Maybe," he grinned. "But it doesn't make it less true."
She rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow. "Then I choose you."
"Even when I mess up?"
"Especially then."
Daniel leaned in and kissed her—soft, real, certain.
The wind blew gently around them, shaking the trees but not the two of them.