The air was warm that night, the kind of warmth that made the edges of the world feel soft. Penelope and Julian sat out back again, their usual spot, feet barely touching as they faced the darkening sky.
Neither of them said much.
They didn't need to.
There's a kind of quiet that only exists between two people who are waiting for something to happen—but don't want to be the first to name it.
Julian was sketching again, long lines across the pages of his weathered notebook. He hadn't shown her what was inside yet, but she never pushed. The way he held it was enough—it mattered to him, and that was sacred.
"You draw when you're scared," she said suddenly.He looked up, surprised. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you get really still. Like if you stop drawing, you'll have to say what's actually on your mind."
Julian closed the book slowly.
"What if I want to say it now?" he asked.
Penelope's heart thumped, sharp and sudden.
"Then say it."
He turned to her. Really turned.
"I like you."
She swallowed. "That's not scary."
"It is," he said. "Because you make things feel real. And real means they can be lost."
She looked at him for a long moment"Then don't lose me."
It was barely a whisper.
Julian leaned in—not rushed, not hesitant. Just honest.
And then it happened: the almost-kiss that wasn't almost anymore.
It was soft. Warm. Quick, but not careless. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise made in the dark.
When they pulled apart, neither of them spoke.
Because nothing they could say would be better than the silence that followed.
The kind of silence that only comes after someone touches your heart… and you let them.