The room felt smaller now—warm, quiet, wrapped in the scent of pressed petals and rosemary.
Ethan's hand rested gently against Amelia's cheek, his thumb brushing her skin with a tenderness that almost made her knees weaken.
Amelia kept her hand over his, grounding herself in the moment.
In him.
In the safety of his presence.
Her breath trembled as she finally spoke.
"I haven't let anyone touch me like this in a long time."
Ethan's expression softened immediately.
> "Then thank you for letting me."
"I'm still afraid," she whispered.
"I know," he murmured.
> "And it's okay."
The sincerity in his voice hit deeper than she expected.
He wasn't trying to fix her fear.
He was simply choosing to stay with it.
They stood there, wrapped in a gentle stillness, before Amelia slowly lowered her hand from his.
Ethan didn't pull away.
Not until she did.
Her fingers slipped from his, and he let his hand fall to his side—softly, with no disappointment, only patience.
Amelia stepped back a little, her chest rising and falling in unsteady breaths.
"I… need some air," she said quietly.
Ethan nodded immediately.
> "Let's go."
He didn't touch her.
He didn't offer his hand.
He simply walked beside her out of the small room, matching her pace with quiet understanding.
---
Outside, the late afternoon light was golden, brushing the courtyard with soft warmth. Amelia inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air steady her.
Ethan stood next to her in silence, giving her space but staying close enough that she could feel him.
After a moment, she spoke again.
"You never react the way I expect."
Ethan glanced at her. "Is that… good?"
She nodded. "It's just new."
"How so?"
Amelia turned to face him fully, her voice a mixture of vulnerability and honesty.
"Most people get frustrated. Or impatient. Or they want answers I'm not ready to give."
Ethan's jaw tightened—not in anger, but in a protective way.
> "I'm not most people."
"I'm learning that," she whispered.
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a little.
> "Amelia… whatever pace you choose, I'll match it. Whatever you're afraid of, I'll give you space to face it. You don't have to move faster for me. Ever."
Her eyes glistened.
She looked down at her hands—hands that had trembled in his a moment ago.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
Ethan stepped a half-step closer.
"May I…?" he asked softly, tilting his head toward her hands.
Amelia hesitated.
Her breath hitched.
Then, slowly, she held out her hands.
Ethan's fingers brushed hers first—light as a whisper—before he gently took both of her hands in his.
Warm.
Safe.
Steady.
Amelia let out a shaky breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
He lifted her hands slightly, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles.
> "These hands," he murmured, "they've carried too much."
Her chest tightened painfully.
Ethan continued, voice a soft tremor,
> "Let me carry some of it with you. Not instead of you. Just… with you."
Tears slipped down Amelia's cheeks before she could stop them.
Ethan's expression softened, but he didn't reach to wipe them.
He let her feel.
Let her breathe.
Let her cry without pressure or question.
It was the gentlest thing anyone had ever done for her.
When Amelia finally spoke, her voice trembled like petals in the wind.
"I don't know how to let someone stay."
Ethan squeezed her hands—warm, grounding, certain.
> "You don't have to know," he whispered.
"Just… don't push me away."
She looked up at him—really looked—and for the first time, she believed him.
Ethan wasn't here to take.
Or to rush.
Or to demand.
He was here to stay.
Slowly, Amelia stepped closer until she could feel the faint warmth of his breath.
Her voice came out soft, trembling, but brave.
"Then stay."
Ethan inhaled sharply—
not out of surprise,
but because her words hit him deeper than he expected.
> "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
Amelia didn't lean forward.
She didn't reach for him.
She simply let the truth settle between them, warm and fragile.
And Ethan held her hands like they were something precious.
In the courtyard of the old library—
with sunlight fading and petals dancing on the breeze—
Amelia made her first real promise:
She wasn't running anymore.