She was still asleep when I woke up.
Her hair was a mess across my chest — strands everywhere, silky and warm like she belonged there. Like she was made for this exact spot.
My arm had gone numb beneath her, but I didn't move.
Couldn't.
She looked so small in my sweatshirt. Legs curled toward me, one hand balled into a fist on my shirt like she was holding onto something even in sleep. Like letting go would be worse than pain.
I stared.
At her lashes. At the gentle pout her lips settled into. At the way she looked like she'd fought the world all day and still come here — to me — just to find a place to rest.
I hadn't deserved that.
Not when I made her jealous and overthink and pull back and come close again and—
Her nose twitched.
Her eyes fluttered open.
I didn't look away. Not even for a second.
"Morning," she mumbled, voice all sleep and softness.
"Hey," I said, barely above a whisper.
She blinked at me.
I didn't smile.
Didn't flirt.
Didn't make a sarcastic comment to protect myself like I always did.
I just looked at her.
Really looked.
And said, "I love you too."
Silence.
She froze — eyes wide, lips parted — like I'd just spoken in a language only her heart understood.
"I… what?" she breathed.
I exhaled. "You said it. That night. You thought I was asleep, remember? and on the rooftop too"
Her eyes filled. Not with tears — not yet. But with everything she'd held in since.
"You heard it that night?"
"I did."
"And you—"
"I didn't say it then because I was terrified," I admitted. "But I'm not now."
She buried her face in my chest, fingers fisting my shirt like she could crawl into me.
And I let her.
Held her tighter.
Because for the first time in a long time, there wasn't a storm between us.
Just this.
Just us.