The next morning arrived with a weight Mira couldn't explain. Sleep had been elusive. Her mind replayed the rooftop moment on an endless loop—the closeness, the warmth, the way Noah looked at her like she was the only thing that made sense in a world full of noise.
She avoided him that morning, busying herself with errands, refusing to admit that the simple memory of his nearness had shaken her.
But Noah didn't make it easy to forget.
When she returned from the market, arms full of vegetables and spices, she found him fixing the cracked fence in their backyard, shirt off, sweat glistening against his skin.
She paused for just a second longer than necessary.
"I see you've turned into a carpenter now," she said, trying to sound amused instead of affected.
He glanced at her and grinned. "Just doing my part. Your mom said if I finish the fence, she might finally let me taste her famous egusi soup."
"She's bluffing. She only makes it for people she likes."
"Then I'll just have to work harder."
She rolled her eyes and walked past him, but her heartbeat betrayed her calm exterior.
Later that afternoon, the two of them found themselves walking through the quiet streets of her childhood neighborhood. Kids played with tires, vendors called out prices of fresh fruit, and the air smelled of smoke and spice.
"You know," Noah said, hands tucked into his pockets, "you're different here."
"How so?"
"Softer. Calmer. Like...you're finally breathing."
She smiled faintly. "That's what home does. But I guess you wouldn't understand."
"I'm starting to," he said, looking at her.
They stopped near a small bridge, one Mira used to cross every day on her way to school. The river beneath was shallow now, but the memories were deep.
"Did you ever think," she said slowly, "that one mistake—one misunderstanding—could change everything?"
Noah nodded. "Every single day since I met you."
There was something in the air—thick, electric, unavoidable.
He reached for her hand.
She didn't pull away.
And when he leaned in—tentatively, almost shyly—it felt like the world went quiet.
Their lips were inches apart when a loud shout cut through the moment.
"Mira!"
She turned, startled, to find an old friend jogging toward her, wide-eyed and excited.
Noah stepped back, the connection snapped, just like that.
And in that fragile pause, Mira realized they had almost kissed.
Almost.
But almost wasn't enough. Not yet.