The silence in the car was loud.
Nadia kept her eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the edge of her sleeve, as if it might somehow distract her from the awkward weight hanging between them. A few hours ago, she'd laughed at something silly he said. Now, her jaw was clenched, her eyes a little too focused—like the lane markings would disappear if she blinked.
Eli sat beside her, arms crossed. Not defensive. Just... closed off. Like if he let them drop, everything would spill out.
"Are we just gonna pretend last night didn't happen?" he finally said.
Nadia didn't look at him. Her voice came out soft, clipped. "I'm not pretending."
"You haven't said a word about it."
She exhaled slowly. "Because I don't know what to say."
Eli turned toward the window. Trees flashed by in a blur of green and gold, the late afternoon sun spilling long shadows across the windshield. It should've been a peaceful drive. It wasn't.
"I meant it," he said quietly.
Those three words sat between them like a ticking bomb.
Nadia's grip on the wheel tightened. Her fingers had gone cold. "I know you did. That's the problem."
He turned back to her. "How is that a problem?"
"Because it changes everything."
"It's supposed to."
She finally glanced at him, and for a moment, there was something raw behind her eyes. Not anger. Not fear. Just this tired kind of ache, like she'd been carrying something too heavy for too long.
"You don't get it," she whispered.
"Then make me get it."
She pulled over.
Gravel crunched under the tires as the car slowed to a stop on the side of a quiet, empty road. There were no other cars. No sounds except the soft hum of the engine and a few restless birds somewhere in the trees.
Nadia shifted in her seat, then turned to face him fully. "You know I care about you, right?"
He nodded, slowly.
"But I'm scared of what this could turn into."
"Why?"
"Because... I don't trust myself when I'm happy."
That stung more than he expected.
Nadia continued, her voice low, like she was afraid if she said it too loud, it'd become too real. "Every time something good happens in my life, I find a way to ruin it. Or it gets taken away. And I—I can't go through that again."
Eli stared at her. "So what? We don't even try?"
She looked down at her lap. "I don't want to lose you."
"You're already pushing me away."
Silence again. This time heavier. More final.
"I wish I could shut it off," she said, more to herself than to him. "This... fear. This voice in my head that keeps saying it won't last."
He reached out, slowly, gently. His fingers brushed against hers. "Then let me prove it wrong."
Nadia's eyes flicked up to meet his.
"I'm not going anywhere," Eli said. "Even if you try to run. Even if you build a thousand walls and throw every reason in my face why we shouldn't work. I'm still here."
Her throat tightened. "You say that now."
"And I'll say it tomorrow. And the day after."
Nadia stared at him like she didn't quite know whether to believe him or cry. Maybe both.
The wind rustled the leaves outside.
He let out a slow breath, leaned back slightly. "But I can't do this alone, Nadia. You have to meet me halfway."
She nodded once, slowly. "I'm trying."
"Then let's try together."
For the first time in what felt like hours, a small, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It wasn't much. But it was enough.
She started the car again.
The engine purred to life. As they pulled back onto the road, the silence between them felt different. Softer. Less like a wall. More like space they could fill, together.
And maybe, just maybe, that was a start.
---
The silence that followed her words wasn't empty. It buzzed. Not awkward. Just… loaded. Like something unspoken had just shifted between them.
Noah watched her from across the couch, his elbow propped on the backrest, fingers absentmindedly brushing his lips. "You always do that," he said, voice low.
Her eyes flicked to him. "Do what?"
"Downplay your own pain. Like it makes you easier to love."
She blinked. Her breath caught for a second, a hiccup of vulnerability, before she masked it with a soft laugh. "I guess I just learned not everyone wants the full package."
"Well, that sucks for them."
He said it so casually, but it hit harder than he probably meant. Harder than he knew. Her gaze dropped to the half-empty mug in her hands. The tea had gone cold. Still, her fingers wrapped around it like it anchored her.
"You make it sound easy," she said. "Loving someone who's been through things. Who still flinches at stupid stuff, still forgets how to breathe sometimes."
Noah didn't say anything at first. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You ever think maybe it makes you easier to love?"
She looked up slowly.
"Because it means you're still here," he continued, eyes not leaving hers. "Still choosing to show up. Still trying. I don't know. That sounds pretty brave to me."
The air between them grew thick. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just full—of everything they hadn't dared to say. And maybe a little of what they didn't need to say out loud.
She shifted slightly, turning her body more toward him. "You know you're not exactly light baggage either, right?"
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well. I bring snacks, at least."
She laughed—for real this time. The kind that cracked through the fog and reached her eyes. And something about that sound seemed to relax his shoulders.
"You do," she said. "I give you that."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a riddle he wasn't done solving. Then his voice dropped, softer now. "Can I ask you something personal?"
She nodded.
"When was the last time someone made you feel safe?"
Her smile faded slowly. Not completely, but enough to show he'd hit a place she usually kept guarded. She took a breath. Thought. Then answered, "Before tonight? I don't really remember."
His eyes darkened just a little. "And now?"
She didn't look away. "Now… yeah. I do."
Silence again. Not awkward. This one was warm. Like a blanket pulled up over them both.
She stretched her legs across the couch, bare feet brushing his thigh, not even pretending it was accidental. He didn't move away.
"You know what I think?" she asked.
"Mm?"
"I think you're the kind of person who offers warmth without realizing it. You walk into a room, and suddenly it feels less cold. Even if you don't say anything."
"I think that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? What kind of people have you been hanging out with?"
"Apparently the wrong ones. Until now."
Their eyes met again. Held. And for the first time, neither of them looked away.
It was his hand that moved first. Not dramatic. Just a subtle brush of his fingers over hers, the kind of touch that asked permission without saying a word.
She didn't pull away.
Instead, she turned her hand, palm up, linking their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was.
He exhaled through his nose, soft and a little shaky. Then smiled.
"Is this the part where we kiss and the screen fades to black?"
She smirked. "Only if you want the PG version."
He laughed, then grew quiet again. "I don't want to mess this up."
"Then don't."
It wasn't a challenge. Just a simple truth.
"I want to take things slow," he said.
"Okay."
"Like, glacial. Snail-paced. One step above watching paint dry."
She giggled. "You're such a weirdo."
"And you're still holding my hand, so what does that make you?"
"Worse."
He nodded. "Cool. Just making sure we're on the same page."
The clock ticked quietly behind them. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed and a dog barked. The world kept turning. But here, in this small apartment filled with half-drunk tea and soft laughter, time slowed just a little.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn't move. Just adjusted his arm around her like it belonged there.
And maybe it did.
She closed her eyes. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"That even on the days we forget this moment—even when things get messy and loud and stupid—we'll remember what it felt like to be here. Right now."
He didn't hesitate. "I promise."
No fanfare. No grand gesture. Just the quiet solidness of someone who meant it.
And in a world that often overpromised and underdelivered, maybe that was enough.