Kaynaaz

I stare at him, drinking in the sharp cut of his jaw, the elegant curve of his nose, the way his hair whips about as though the wind is desperate to keep him for itself. Strands fall into his forehead, softening his edges, making him look like he's just tumbled out of sleep and into my dream. His eyes catch the light in ways that make me ache, bright, alive, searching for beauty even in the smallest things, like the golden sheen of the horizon or the trembling of leaves in the evening air.

I want to hold onto this image, freeze it, keep him as he is now. But then his lips part.

"I'm leaving."

Two words. Two simple words, and suddenly the air shifts. The world exhales in grief. The colours bleed away from the sky, draining into nothingness. The orange and pink hues wither into bruised greys, clouds curling like smoke around a flame. The warmth on my skin turns to frost, seeping into my veins until my bones rattle.

"What do you mean?" I whisper, my throat dry, the sound breaking like glass. Fear pools in my stomach, spreading thick and heavy, drowning.

"I'm leaving the country tonight," he replies, voice flat, eyes fixed anywhere but on me. The glimmer in them is gone. He's a stranger in the same skin. "I'm going far, far away."

My heart jolts like it's been torn from my chest. "Why? No.. You can't. You can't." The plea slips out, frantic, brittle, my hands trembling as if they might hold him here if I reached out.

He takes a step back, shadows curling around his frame. His gaze finally snaps to mine, but it's cold, merciless.

"Why?" he repeats, bitter laughter coating the word. "What do you mean, why, Kaynaaz? You did this. You pushed me away. You refused to seek me."

I stumble, my lips parting, breath catching on the truth clawing its way up my throat. Desperation clings to me as I open my mouth, ready to tell him everything, the love buried so deep it burns to stay hidden. The words hover on my tongue, trembling, aching to be free.

I want to scream that he's wrong, that I never meant to push him away, that every moment without him has felt like a punishment I carved into myself. I want to beg him to see through me, to peel past my silence and glimpse the storm that has always, always carried his name. My chest heaves with the force of it, my ribs straining like a cage too small for a creature desperate to break out.

The confessions rush against my teeth, wild and frantic: that I remember the heat of his hands, the taste of his kiss, the way his absence cuts sharper than any blade. That I am terrified of a world where he doesn't exist in the spaces between my breaths.

But when I try to speak, nothing comes. The air thickens, turning solid, pressing down on my tongue until the words shrivel and die before they can leave me. My throat tightens, my voice smothered as if invisible fingers coil around it, strangling me. I choke on silence, the truth pounding against the walls of my body with nowhere to go, a bird battering itself bloody against the bars of its cage.

And he just stands there, watching me, eyes dark, expression unreadable, as though my silence is the only answer he ever needed.

Then he shakes his head, steps back again.

"I'm done waiting."

My blood runs cold.

"This isn't going to work."

The words echo, bouncing off invisible walls, growing louder, heavier. My chest tightens, breath shallow. He keeps fading, shrinking.

"Our kiss was a mistake."

The memory of his lips on mine flickers like a candle in a storm, once warm, once steady, now sputtering out.

"That night was a mistake."

I flinch, as though struck.

"I shouldn't have come back here."

His voice fractures into multiples, layering over itself, deeper, harsher, until the sound is unbearable. The sky above curdles black, stars snuffed out one by one, the air heavy with ash. His silhouette blurs, dissolving at the edges, his face becoming nothing but shadow. I reach for him, claw at the space where he stands, but he slips further, until all that's left is a smear of smoke carried by the wind.

"No!" The scream tears out of me, ripping my throat apart.

I jolt awake.

My body lurches upright in bed, chest heaving, lungs clawing for air that won't come fast enough. Sweat clings to my skin, damp and suffocating, strands of hair plastered to my face. My throat burns, raw, as if I really had been screaming into the darkness for him, begging him not to go. The echo of his words still presses against my chest like heavy stones, each syllable bruising me from the inside.

For a moment, I can't move. I sit there trembling, staring at the shadows in my room as though he might still be standing there, distant and fading. My pulse hammers against my ribs, my heart trying to break free from the nightmare even though it's already over.

It was just a dream. I know it. I whisper it to myself, silently, desperately. Just a dream.

But the relief doesn't come. Instead, my eyes sting, vision blurring as tears well up. The kind of tears that ache, the kind that leave you empty. My hands curl into fists in my lap, nails biting into my palms, as if pain could anchor me back into reality.

I remember his last words to me, the ones he whispered before turning his back on me. Turning his back, something he had never done before, something I had never even imagined he was capable of. I thought he would always face me, no matter how much silence I wrapped myself in. But he didn't. And it hurt more than I can ever put into words. It split me open in ways I didn't know I could bleed. It felt like watching the sun disappear and realising it might never rise again.

I see it still, that moment in the garden a week ago. The way the air smelled of rain and jasmine, the way his eyes looked at me, not angry, not bitter, but pleading. Begging. He had stood there, asking me for nothing more than a word, a truth, a single crack in my silence. He had opened himself so completely, laid every piece of his heart in front of me, and all I had to do was reach out and take it.

But I didn't.

I kept my lips sealed, my voice locked away in a place too deep, too guarded. It wasn't that I didn't feel anything; God, I felt too much. My chest was overflowing, and yet nothing came out. My silence must have looked like rejection, like cruelty, but it was fear. Always fear.

Because, despite his vows, despite the softness in his voice when he swore he'd love me, a voice inside me whispered louder:

He'll leave. He'll go the moment you let him in. The moment you admit he matters, he'll vanish.

I have lived with abandonment breathing down my neck for so long that it's carved itself into me, made a home in my bones. And that evening, it wrapped its hands around my throat and stole my words.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to scream that I adored him, that every heartbeat of mine had been chasing him since the day he left. But fear dragged me backwards, chained me in hesitation, and all I could do was stand there like stone, watching the light in his eyes flicker. And so he turned away.

And I prayed. I prayed harder than I've ever prayed before. Begged God for one last chance, one last mercy. I promised that if he gave me a moment, just another moment more with this man, I wouldn't waste it. I'd tell him everything.

But maybe even God grows tired of waiting. Maybe even He lost patience with me. And now he left it on me, didn't He? He left the choice in my hands.

And all that's left with me are echoes. His voice, his words, his back retreating into the dark. And the unbearable weight of knowing that he'd never give up, rather, I was the one who'd forced him to step back.

I'm still shaking, the sheets tangled around me like restraints, damp with sweat. My chest rises and falls too quickly, as though I've run for miles, but it isn't exhaustion that grips me; it's terror. A terror sharper than what I felt in that garden a week ago. Back then, the fear was silent, like a chain quietly tightening around my heart. Tonight, it's loud, roaring, tearing me apart from the inside.

Because in the garden, at least he was still there. He was still standing in front of me, breathing the same air, waiting for me even as I hesitated. But in my dream, he was gone. He turned away and didn't come back. And I felt it, the emptiness that followed. The unbearable silence that swallowed me whole.

The nightmare ripped the last thread I was clinging to. It showed me what it would feel like to lose him entirely. And it hurt in a way I can't describe, deeper than anything I've ever known. It wasn't just fear anymore; it's grief. A grief so real it burned, a grief I wasn't ready for, a grief I couldn't survive if it ever came true.

Tears sting my eyes again, spilling before I can stop them, hot trails running down my cheeks. My hands tremble as I clutch the sheets, my throat raw, my body aching as though I had lived that loss in truth.

And the cruellest part? The nightmare showed me not only what I feared most, but what I caused. It was me. My silence. My hesitation. My fear. And now the thought won't leave me, that I might still lose him the same way in reality if I keep holding myself back.

The thought lands like a verdict, slow and irreversible. My breath shudders around it, and for the first time since the garden, something inside me unclenches. It is a small, dangerous bloom of clarity. I can't keep living on might-have-beens and half-said apologies. I can't let fear write the ending to our story. Not again. Not ever.

I sit up, the room tilting for a heartbeat, and the decision forms with the cold insistence of truth. I can feel it in my bones, raw and relentless. I can't hold back anymore. I need to tell him. I need to tell him now, before the voice inside me builds another wall I can't climb, before silence becomes something permanent. I need to drag the words out of whatever place I've buried them in and throw them at him until he understands.

Images flash, his face in the garden, the way he looked at me like I was everything, the way his back left me hollow. I think of all the small things I never said aloud: that I memorise the slope of his smile, that the sound of his laugh keeps me steady, that every quiet hour without him has been a lesson in missing. The list is endless, and suddenly it doesn't matter if I stumble over the words. They will sound like salvation even if they come out strangled and messy.

I push the sheet away, feet finding the floor, muscles moving before my thoughts can argue. My hands shake as I throw on clothes, anything that will keep the chill from seeping into the hollowness the dream left behind. I grab my phone with fingers that fumble but do not pause.

I don't call; I don't text. I don't let the cowardice of typing replace the courage of being there. I will go to him. I will stand in front of him and let him see the truth in my eyes.

"Please," I whisper to the empty room, to whatever god might still be listening, to the ghost of every chance I've wasted. "Please, let this be enough."

I stumble out of my room, shoes clutched in one hand, my hospital ID in the other. For a week, I hadn't set foot inside those sterile white walls, hadn't been to the hospital. I'd called in sick, made excuses, all because I couldn't bear the thought of facing him, of looking into those eyes and finding nothing but disappointment carved into them.

The house is too quiet when I push through the hallway, the kind of silence that presses on your ears until it feels like it's screaming. But even that eerie stillness can't compete with the storm in my head, with the urgency clawing at my chest. Nothing matters except getting to him before my courage falters again.

I rush out the front door, nearly tripping on the steps, and fumble my way into the driver's seat. My hands are shaking as I shove the keys into the ignition, my ID still crumpled between my fingers. The moment the engine roars to life, I don't think; I just slam my foot down and speed off into the evening.

The streets blur past me, but all I see are his eyes. All I hear are his last words, echoing in the hollow of my chest. My pulse drums louder with every turn. Fear still sits inside me, but for the first time, it isn't stronger than what I feel for him.

I don't even know what I'll say when I get there. I just know I can't keep running, not from him, not from myself.

The car screeches to a halt outside the hospital, and I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles ache. My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, the weight of everything pressing down harder now that I'm here. For a heartbeat, I wonder if I've made a mistake, if I should turn the key again, drive away, and spare myself the sight of him.

But then I force myself to move. My legs feel like they're made of glass as I push the door open and step out. The outside air hits me, cool against the sweat clinging to my skin, but it does nothing to steady me. Each step toward the entrance feels heavier than the last. By the time I reach the wide glass doors, my hand trembles when I reach out, hovering over the handle as though it might burn me.

I can't do this. The thought slices through me, sharp and cruel. What if he doesn't want to hear me anymore? What if I'm too late? My throat tightens, my whole body locked in hesitation.

And then, like a whisper breaking through the noise, I hear my sister's voice echo in my head: "When life gives us second chances, we don't let go."

The memory steadies me, even as my knees shake. Because hadn't Aayan always been the one who never let go? Through silence, through rejection, through the weight of my fear, he had stayed. He had fought. He had loved me without asking for anything in return.

I draw in a shaky breath, my hand finally closing around the handle. With my heart pounding so hard I can barely breathe, I pull the door open and step inside.

The hospital air greets me in a rush of cold sterility, the faint sting of antiseptic sharp in my nose. For a moment, I just stand there, frozen under the too-bright lights, my heart clawing at my ribs. My shoes hang from one hand, the ID card pressed tight in the other, as if those two things alone tether me to reality.

People notice me as I pass, nurses at the desk, other interns rushing by, orderlies balancing trays. Their greetings brush against me like soft winds: "Good evening, Kaynaaz." "It's been a while." "Hope you're feeling better."

I nod, nothing more. A flicker of acknowledgement, a tilt of my head. Words feel impossible, locked away somewhere too far to reach. I can't stop, can't afford to slow, not when every step is about finding him.

At first, my movements are hesitant, slow, as though my body is still testing the ground beneath me, unsure if I belong here after hiding away for so long. My footsteps echo faintly in the hallway, each one stretching time thinner, my breaths shallow and quick.

Corridor after corridor unfolds, familiar and strange all at once. I've walked these halls a thousand times, but today they feel endless, a labyrinth designed to keep me away from him. My eyes dart from door to door, from faces I barely register to spaces I scan desperately, searching, always searching, for him.

And beneath it all, the same thought repeats, relentless, like a pulse beneath my skin.

I need to find him. I need to tell him before it's too late.

The quiet hesitation doesn't last. The longer I walk, the more the edges of panic scrape at me, raw and insistent. My steps quicken against the polished floor, each one sharper, louder, than the last. I clutch my shoes tighter, my nails digging into the leather, and my throat feels too dry to swallow.

He isn't here. Not in the ward, not in the hallway.

I glance into a room, strangers in white coats. Another turn, faces I don't recognise. Another corridor, empty, hollow, echoing with nothing but my own racing heartbeat.

What if he left?

The thought slices through me, cold and merciless. What if the dream wasn't just a dream? What if he finally gave up, finally stopped waiting for me?

My breath shudders, catching against my ribs as I quicken my pace. My ID slips in my hand, almost falling, and I fumble to hold it tighter, as if that small plastic card is the only proof I still belong here, still belong anywhere near him.

I walk faster. No...

I run.

The fluorescent lights blur as I pass, white streaks in my vision. The hospital hums around me—machines beeping, nurses talking, doors opening and closing, but it all fades, drowned out by the single thought pounding in my skull: He's gone. He's gone. He's gone.

What if I waited too long?

I can't breathe. I feel like the walls are closing in, like every step I take only leads me further away. My chest heaves, sweat sticking to my back. I turn into another corridor, and it's empty. Too empty. The kind of emptiness that makes dread crawl up my throat.

Images from my nightmare flicker behind my eyes, the way he turned his back, the sound of his voice saying he was done, that I'd ruined everything. My hands shake, and I press one against the wall for balance.

No. No, please. Not like this.

I blink hard, vision blurring with tears that threaten to spill. I'd thought I had time, thought I could gather courage little by little. But maybe time ran out while I was busy hiding.

I push on, feet stumbling forward, my breath shallow and fast. Each corner I turn, each door I peek into, I pray, please, let him be here. Please, let me find him. Please don't let my fear become real.

But he's nowhere.

And the terror grows heavier with every step.

I stumble around another corner, the sound of my own footsteps crashing in my ears. My vision swims with the mix of tears and fluorescent glare, and my throat aches from breathing too hard.

He's not here. He's gone. He's left me just like in the dream.

The thought crashes over me so hard that I stop dead in the middle of the hallway, swaying on my feet. A nurse passes by, her eyes flicking toward me with concern, and I feel the desperation clawing up my chest, raw and unbearable.

"I-" My voice breaks, thin and hoarse. I try again, my lips trembling. "Excuse me- do you... Do you know where Dr Aayan is?"

She pauses, tilts her head, then offers me a small, knowing smile. "He's not in the wards right now. Last I saw, he went up to the rooftop."

The rooftop.

Relief and fear slam into me at once, tangling together until I can hardly tell them apart. My knees almost buckle. He's still here. He hasn't gone. But he's up there, above all this, standing somewhere I'll have to climb to reach, and suddenly it feels like the most fitting thing in the world, like I'll have to bare myself open, strip away every fear, just to meet him where he is.

I whisper a thank you that barely leaves my lips, then break into a run again, my shoes still clutched in one hand, my ID dangling from the other. Every step toward the stairwell feels heavier and lighter all at once, because I know I'm close now, closer than I've ever been, and I can't turn back anymore.

The heavy metal door groans as I push it open, my shoulder knocking against it harder than I meant to. The rooftop air rushes into me, cool and sharp, carrying the faint sting of smoke and the low hum of the city breathing below.

I stumble out, breathless, my heart a wild storm in my chest. For a moment, I can't move, I just stand there, scanning the space, the twilight sky spilling its bruised colours across the horizon.

And then I see him.

My entire being halts. Every thought, every sound, every jagged breath inside me stills into silence.

He's there, at the edge of the rooftop, his broad back turned toward me, carved strong and certain against the horizon. The fading sun clings to him like it's reluctant to leave, draping him in liquid gold that spills over his shoulders, catching in the folds of his shirt, tracing every line of him until he looks less like a man and more like something the light itself refuses to abandon.

Beyond him, the city stretches wide and alive, neon signs flickering to life, car headlights threading the streets like restless stars fallen to earth. But all of it pales, blurred and distant, because he stands at the centre of it, the only stillness in a world that won't stop moving.

Smoke lifts from the cigarette between his fingers, winding upward in delicate ribbons, half-light and half-shadow, dissolving into the deepening sky. The twilight colours, rose bleeding into violet, violet surrendering to indigo, bend around him, as though the evening itself has chosen him as its anchor, its axis.

His hair shifts in the breeze, messy strands whipped forward and back, and I think absurdly that even the wind knows him, knows the shape of him, the weight of him. There's something achingly solitary in the curve of his stance, in the way his figure holds against the vast expanse, like he belongs to the sky and not the world beneath our feet.

And I can't look away. It feels sacrilegious to blink, as though if I close my eyes, he might vanish, swallowed by the horizon, leaving me with nothing but smoke and memory.

My lungs still burn from the climb, every breath ragged, shallow, and loud in the open air. The weight of my run clings to me, sweat dampening my skin, my chest heaving as though the nightmare chased me all the way here.

I take a trembling step forward, the scrape of my shoes against the concrete too loud in the quiet rooftop. The sound feels foreign, intrusive, as though I've broken into a sanctuary I was never meant to enter. Another step, closer, my breaths spilling out fast and uneven, fogging the cool air around me.

He shifts, subtly at first, the tilt of his head, the smallest change in his posture. Then he turns.

The motion is unhurried, deliberate, like he'd already known I was there, like my presence had stirred something in him before I made a sound. His eyes catch mine in an instant, sharp and questioning, the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing faintly as he lowers his hand. Concern flickers across his face, cutting through the calm composure he always wears, his gaze scanning me, my trembling hands, my dishevelled hair, the way I can't quite steady my breathing.

"Kaynaaz?" His voice cuts through the rooftop air, rough with alarm, the cigarette falling forgotten from his hand as he strides toward me. In seconds, he's there, closing the distance I thought might never be crossed again.

His hands find my face with a swiftness that feels instinctive, palms warm against my chilled skin, thumbs brushing along my cheeks as if to anchor me, to make sure I'm real. His eyes dart over me, frantic, scanning for something he can't name, an injury, a wound, an answer for why I'm trembling, why my breaths shatter like glass between us.

"What happened, min kärlek? Why are you shaking?" His voice is urgent, low, carrying all the weight of his fear.

But I can't respond. I can't even think.

All I can do is look at him. The hard lines of worry etched into his brow. The warmth of his hands cradling me as though I'm something fragile, irreplaceable. The depth of his eyes, stormy, fierce, and alive, searching mine with a tenderness that undoes me completely.

My heart steadies for the first time in hours, not because the nightmare has lost its grip, but because he's here. Because I can see him, touch him, feel the reality of him in this moment. And against the shadows of my fear, and I am glad. Glad he's in front of me, glad I ran here, glad I didn't lose him.

And somewhere inside that gladness, something softer blooms, adoration so sharp it hurts, spilling through me in quiet awe, leaving me unable to look away.

"Kaynaaz," he says again, softer this time but no less urgent, his thumbs brushing against the hollows of my cheeks. His eyes lock onto mine, unrelenting, as though he can will the answer out of me. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"

But the words don't reach me the way they should. I hear them, yes, his voice threading through the roar of my pulse, but I'm caught in something deeper, something that leaves me suspended and speechless.

I study him as though I've never seen him before, as though the world has slowed just to let me memorise the lines of his face. The crease in his brow, the faint stubble along his jaw, the sharp concern etched into every feature. His touch is warm, steady, and grounding, yet my insides feel weightless, unmoored, because he's here.

For so long, I've been drowning in silence, in fear, in all the words I never said. And now that he's close enough for me to feel the rise and fall of his breath, it's like I can finally breathe again.

My lips part, but nothing comes out. Only the shimmer of tears in my eyes, only the weight of everything unsaid pressing harder against my chest.

"Kaynaaz," he urges again, his voice breaking a little, pulling me back with the sheer force of his worry. "Please. Say something."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words tearing out of me before I can stop them. They scrape against my throat, breathless, broken, but truer than anything I've ever said.

His hands are still against my face.

The crease in his brow deepens as his gaze narrows, searching mine with a confusion that cuts through the air between us. He doesn't speak, doesn't rush to fill the silence, he just tilts his head slightly to the side, like he's trying to make sense of me, of this sudden crack in my armour. The ember of his cigarette still smoulders faintly on the ground near his feet, the smoke curling upward like a ghost of the moment before.

"I'm-" I stammer again, my chest rising and falling too fast. "I'm so sorry, Aayan." My breaths shiver between us, catching in my lungs as I look at him, wide-eyed and desperate. "For all of it. For that day... for the way I just stood there, and said nothing. For making you wait, for letting you think I didn't-" My voice splinters, the words tumbling out jagged, frantic.

But still, he stays silent, his head tilted, eyes dark and steady on mine, as though he's holding back everything until I've said all that I need to.

And that silence only makes me want to keep going, to finally empty the weight I've carried alone.

"I was scared." The words tumble out, uneven and jagged, and once they begin, I can't stop them. My chest heaves, my breaths too shallow, but I force them through anyway. "God, Aayan, I was terrified."

I grip his wrists where they hold my face, as though anchoring myself there, needing to feel him steady against my trembling. "You looked at me that night like I was your whole world, like you'd been waiting for me all your life. And I... I just froze. Do you know what that felt like? To have every part of me screaming to say something, to say yes, I feel it too, but my mouth... my mouth wouldn't open?" My voice cracks, hot tears slipping down my cheeks, caught by the warmth of his hands.

"I thought- if I told you, if I let myself fall, you'd leave. That as soon as I gave you everything, you'd go again, and I wouldn't survive it this time." My words splinter into sobs, harsh and ugly. "I've lived my whole life waiting for people to leave, preparing for it, bracing for the moment they'd decide I wasn't worth staying for. And the thought of you- you- walking away after knowing what you mean to me... it would kill me, Aayan. I couldn't risk it."

My breaths come too fast, each one scraping like glass inside me, but I keep going because if I stop, I'll never have the courage again. "And so I stayed quiet. I let fear chain my tongue, I let it steal every chance you gave me. And every day since, it's been choking me, this silence. I see your face in my head, the way you looked at me that night, waiting, hoping, and I hate myself for not answering you. For letting you walk away thinking I didn't care."

I shake my head, the tears blurring him in front of me. "But I do. I care more than I know how to put into words. You've haunted every corner of me since the day you came back. You've filled every silence, every prayer, every stupid, reckless dream. I'm sorry for every second I made you doubt that. I'm sorry for every moment I chose fear over you."

My voice breaks into a whisper, trembling, desperate. "I love you, Aayan. I love you, and I've been so afraid of it, but I can't hold it back anymore. If I don't say it now, I'll lose you. And I can't-" my chest seizes with a sob, "-I can't lose you. Not like this. Not ever."

The last words dissolve into the air between us, my tears still running, my body trembling as though I've bled myself hollow. I stare at him, wide-eyed, raw, waiting, and praying for anything. For him to speak, to move, to give me something to hold on to before the silence kills me.

When he doesn't say anything for another beat, my chest tightens. Breaths come in shallow bursts that don't seem to reach my lungs. His hands are still warm on my face, steadying me, grounding me, but my heart is anything but steady. Panic claws at me, whispering in cruel tones, What if he doesn't feel the same?

I stumble back a step, his touch slipping from my skin, and it feels like the earth itself has tilted beneath me. My throat burns, my lips part, but no words come. All I can think is, leave before he does. Leave before he takes this last piece of you away.

The fear is sharp, raw, unbearable. If I stay, I risk watching him turn from me. If I go, at least I'll be the one who left first. My heel brushes against the rooftop floor as I inch backward, my pulse a thunderstorm in my ears. I don't even know if I'm breathing anymore.

Before I can take another step, his hand shoots out, fingers curling firmly around my wrist. The sudden warmth of his touch jolts through me, halting my escape. My breath stutters, caught between relief and terror, as I look up at him.

His grip isn't harsh, but it's unyielding, as if he knows exactly what's racing through my mind and refuses to let it win. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls me back toward him, until I'm standing in the shadow of his broad frame once more. My pulse hammers beneath his thumb where it rests against my skin, betraying me.

"Kaynaaz," he breathes, my name breaking through the storm in my head. It's not loud, not demanding. Just steady.

Just him.

His eyes burn into mine, fierce and searching, as though he's trying to read every thought I've tried to hide. His other hand rises, hesitates for the briefest moment, and then cups my jaw with such aching gentleness that my knees nearly give way. My chest heaves, still raw from running, but now it's the closeness of him that steals my breath.

He leans in, not rushed, not careless, but as though the world has slowed to wait for him. The faint smoke of his cigarette clings to the air, mingling with the sharp, clean scent of the evening wind, and then he's close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath ghost across my lips.

I freeze, caught between fear and longing, every part of me trembling. His forehead dips to rest against mine for a heartbeat, grounding me, anchoring me, before he finally lowers his mouth to mine.

His lips brush mine first, tentative, feather-light, as though he's afraid I might break. It's a question, a hesitation, but one that sends every nerve in me sparking alive. My breath hitches, and before I can think, I rise onto my toes, closing the space that still lingers between us.

The movement deepens the kiss, pulling him into me as if I've been starved of this closeness for far too long. My fingers clutch at his shirt, needing something to hold onto as the world tilts and spins. His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my chest ache, as though he's pouring every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every unspoken plea into this single moment.

He exhales sharply, almost like a groan, when I press closer. His hand cradles the back of my head, holding me steady, while the other trembles against my cheek, tracing my skin as though to memorise me. I tip further, straining on my toes, desperate to keep him tethered to me, terrified that if I let go, even for a breath, he'll disappear.

The kiss grows deeper, fiercer, until I feel his heartbeat racing beneath my palms where they rest against his chest, answering the frantic rhythm of my own. Heat spreads through me, stealing the air from my lungs, yet I can't stop, I don't want to. I lean in until there's nothing left between us, only the desperate, consuming truth of him.

And when he finally draws back just enough for our lips to part, his breath mingles with mine, ragged and uneven, as though neither of us remembers how to exist outside this moment.

"I love you more," he breathes, the word breaking in his throat, "Fuck, Kaynaaz, I love you. I've loved you from the moment you ruined me, and I don't know how to stop. I don't want to stop."

His voice cracks on the last word, but he doesn't look away. He leans in, his forehead pressing hard against mine, almost bruising, almost pleading. "You're in my veins. Do you get that? There's no undoing this. No escaping you. You're it, Min Kärlek. You always have been."

His words crash into me, jagged and relentless, and something inside me splits wide open. My chest aches, my throat burns, and before I can stop it, hot tears spill down my cheeks. I clutch at him, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt like I'm terrified he'll slip away if I let go.

The tears blur everything until all I can see is the shape of him, solid, unmovable, mine. My chest heaves, breaking under the weight of everything I've kept inside, but before the panic can consume me, his hands are there.

His thumbs sweep across my cheeks, rough and tender all at once, chasing away the wetness as though he could erase every trace of my fear. Then he pulls me in, sudden and fierce, caging me against him. His chest is solid beneath my cheek, rising and falling in sharp breaths, his heartbeat pounding hard and certain against my ear.

One hand cradles the back of my head, pressing me closer as though he can't stand even a breath of distance, while the other wraps around me, holding me so tight it almost hurts, but it's a hurt I cling to. A hurt that tells me he's real, that he's here.

In his arms, the storm inside me quiets, just a little. And for the first time in forever, I don't feel like I'm failing. I feel held. I feel at home.