Amelia stayed there for a long moment—forehead resting gently against Ethan's chest, her breath trembling softly against the fabric of his shirt.
Ethan didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He simply existed with her in that quiet space, holding the moment as gently as he held the air between them.
When she finally pulled back, it was slow… careful… almost reluctant.
Ethan's hand slipped away from her back immediately, giving her space without her needing to ask. His eyes flicked over her face, searching for any sign of discomfort, but all he saw was the soft, vulnerable calm that had settled over her.
> "Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?" he asked softly.
Her gaze lowered to the floor.
"For not stepping closer. For not making the moment bigger than I was ready for."
Ethan's voice warmed.
> "Amelia… I'll always meet you where you are. Not an inch further."
Her chest tightened with something achingly tender.
She nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "This room really is beautiful. I can see what it could become."
"That's why I wanted you to see it," he said.
> "I'm hoping you'll help me design it."
Her head snapped up. "Me?"
Ethan smiled.
> "Who else? You make spaces feel alive. You make people feel… safe."
Amelia felt the words land deep inside her.
Safe.
Alive.
She had never imagined someone would associate those words with her.
"I'd love to help," she whispered.
His relief was visible. "Good."
They walked slowly around the room, Amelia running her fingers over empty shelves, Ethan pointing out places where furniture might go, where warm lighting could fall, where children might gather for story time. Every idea he shared, he paused—waiting for her approval, her opinion, her presence.
And for the first time, Amelia felt like she wasn't just watching life from a distance.
She was part of it.
---
They finished their walk-through and stepped back into the courtyard. The clouds had shifted, letting soft beams of sunlight spill across the flowers.
Amelia inhaled deeply. The scent of wet leaves, lavender, and warm earth filled the air.
Ethan glanced at her.
> "You look lighter."
She blinked. "Lighter?"
He nodded.
> "Like something inside you unclenched."
She wasn't sure how he always saw the things she didn't say.
It scared her.
But not enough to run anymore.
"I'm trying," she said quietly. "Every day, a little more."
"And I see it," he replied, voice low and sincere.
> "I notice every step you take."
Her cheeks warmed. She looked away, but Ethan's quiet smile told her he understood exactly what the moment meant for her.
Amelia took a breath—slow, steady—and then surprised herself.
She reached for him.
Not his hand.
Not his arm.
Just… the fabric of his sleeve.
Her fingers curled lightly into the soft cotton, holding it for a heartbeat before letting go. Barely a touch. Barely a breath.
But Ethan froze as if she had placed her whole heart in his hands.
> "Amelia…" he breathed.
She swallowed hard.
"It's not much," she said softly, "but I'm trying to meet you where you are too."
Ethan's eyes softened with something so deep it almost hurt to look at.
> "You are," he whispered. "More than you know."
A warm breeze drifted across the courtyard, lifting the petals of a nearby flowerbed. The moment shimmered around them—quiet, tender, meaningful.
Ethan cleared his throat gently.
> "Can I walk you home again later?"
Amelia nodded immediately, surprising both of them.
"I'd like that," she said quietly.
Ethan's smile was slow… real… full of restrained joy.
> "Then I'll be here."
Amelia turned to leave the courtyard, her heart both trembling and warm.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She could feel him watching her—
not with pressure,
not with expectation,
but with a patience so gentle it made her feel like she was finally allowed to want something good.
For the first time in a long time,
Amelia felt something blooming inside her.
Not fear.
Not caution.
Hope—
real, fragile, beautiful hope.