We stood like that — a hand offered, and mine just short of taking it.

The space between our fingers held more weight than any touch ever could. It pulsed with potential, delicate and thick, a line neither of us had crossed but both had marked.

And then, he moved.

Not toward me.

Into me.

Not a turn, not an embrace — just a shift of weight. His back leaned in, subtly, slowly, and the space between us vanished. His spine met my chest, a clean, deliberate line of contact — not overwhelming, not rough. Just sure. A decision in the shape of a posture.

The warmth of him soaked through my shirt. I didn't exhale. I couldn't.

He didn't lean back hard. He didn't press. He just let his body rest against mine, like it had been waiting to. Like he was done asking questions.

My breath caught, chest expanding just slightly against him — and that alone made the contact deeper.

I felt his head shift again, his face angling toward the shoulder behind him. Not to look at me — he still hadn't — but just to feel where I was.

And then, his hand moved.

The one he'd let hang beside him all this time. It lifted — slowly, thoughtfully — and closed around my wrist. Not tight. Not possessive. His palm found the inside of mine with a patience that felt almost reverent.

The touch was soft.

But not unsure.

His thumb dragged across the inside of my wrist in a slow stroke, feeling the pulse there — not for dominance, not for control. Just to acknowledge it. That I was real. That I was here.

Still, no words.

They would've ruined it.

He brought our joined hands forward, guiding them to rest against the brick in front of us — mine under his, palm to wall, his hand settled lightly over it. A silent hold.

Now we stood like that.

Him in front.

Me behind.

His back resting against my chest.

Our hands sharing the rough warmth of sunlit brick.

A wall in front of us, another behind us, the city somewhere outside the quiet pocket we'd built. Everything that mattered lived right here, in this stillness.

And then, at last, he spoke — a low murmur, voice near my jaw, the heat of it brushing my skin.

"Don't move yet."

Not a command.

Just a whisper of alignment.

Like he knew I wasn't going to anyway.