Walking home with Ethan felt different tonight.
Maybe it was the fading warmth of the sunset.
Maybe it was the soft hum of the town settling into evening.
Maybe it was the way his fingers held hers—gentle, steady, never pulling, simply there.
But mostly, it was the way Amelia didn't feel the need to hide.
Not tonight.
They walked slowly, their footsteps in sync. Every so often, Ethan glanced at her, as if making sure she was really there—really choosing this. Each time their eyes met, something warm tightened in her chest.
As they reached the little wooden bridge over Willow Creek, Amelia paused. The water below shimmered with reflections of twilight and moonlight.
Ethan stopped beside her.
> "Want to sit for a moment?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
They took a seat on the railing, not too close, not too far. Amelia watched the ripples in the water, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood.
Ethan leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
> "You're quiet," he said gently.
"I'm thinking," she whispered.
He waited, patient as ever.
"It feels strange," Amelia admitted. "Holding your hand. Letting myself… want this."
Ethan turned his head toward her. His voice was warm.
> "Strange doesn't mean wrong."
"I know." She exhaled slowly. "But I'm afraid of hurting you."
Ethan's gaze softened.
> "I'm not afraid of that."
"You should be." Her voice shook. "I don't know how to be perfect. I don't know how to love without fear."
He shifted closer—not touching, but close enough for her to feel the sincerity in his presence.
> "I don't need perfect," he said. "I just need honest."
Amelia swallowed hard. The truth caught in her throat, trembling.
"Ethan… I don't know if I can promise you anything yet."
"You don't have to."
She looked at him, her heart aching at the gentleness in his eyes.
He continued softly,
> "All I want is to walk with you—step by step. However slow. However long."
Amelia's eyes glistened. "Why are you so sure about me?"
Ethan gave a small, vulnerable smile.
> "Because when you look at me… even when you're scared… I see something real. Something worth waiting for."
Her breath faltered.
A breeze swept across the bridge, cool and gentle. Amelia's hair brushed her cheek, and without thinking—without preparing—Ethan reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear.
Amelia froze.
His fingers lingered for a moment, barely touching her skin before he pulled his hand back.
> "Sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't—"
"It's okay," she whispered before he could finish.
Their eyes met again—quiet, warm, charged with something fragile.
This time, Amelia took the step.
She reached for his hand again, her fingers sliding between his. Ethan inhaled sharply, as if the small gesture hit deeper than words ever could.
> "Amelia…" he breathed.
She tightened her grip, just a little.
"I'm scared," she admitted, "but I'm also… beginning to want this. Really want it."
Ethan's thumb brushed her knuckles with the lightest touch.
> "Then I'll want it with you."
A soft silence wrapped around them as they watched the water below. The moon's reflection shimmered like silver petals drifting across the creek.
After a while, Ethan spoke again, voice low and careful.
> "Can I ask you something?"
Amelia nodded. "Anything."
"Why today?" he asked. "Why did you choose to try today… instead of waiting?"
Amelia looked at their intertwined hands, her voice barely a whisper.
"Because you didn't pull away," she said. "Even when I did."
Ethan's eyes softened with something deep—something close to awe.
> "I never will."
Her breath trembled.
And for the first time since she'd met him, Amelia leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.
Ethan stilled—stopped breathing for a moment—then relaxed, turning his head just slightly toward her.
They sat like that in the quiet, their hearts settling into a new rhythm. Not rushed. Not forced.
Just right.
And for the first time in years, Amelia felt safe.
Truly safe.