Fan Behavior

Ekko had been holding her hand for a while now, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against her skin, but at her words, the motion faltered. He blinked, barely registering the quiet hitch in his own breath.

"You want to try what, exactly?"

His voice was quieter than he expected. Uncertain. Foreign. Like someone else had spoken the words for him, because the real him—the one whose heart had just tripped over itself—was still trying to catch up.

Powder, curled beside him on the worn-out blanket, hesitated only for a moment before shifting just a little closer. Not much, just enough that he could feel her warmth, enough that when she rested her head against his shoulder, the fine strands of her hair tickled his skin.

"The whole relationship thing," she said, so casually that it almost didn't match the weight of her words.

Ekko swallowed. His heart tripped over itself, like it didn't know whether to pick up speed or stop completely.

For a long moment, he didn't respond. Couldn't. His mind jumped to every version of Powder he had ever known—the wild, sharp-witted little kid who ran alongside him with scraped knees and fearless grins, the quiet girl who would sometimes stare off into space with a look no one else could quite read, the teenager who had grown into someone both softer and stronger in ways that left him breathless. And now, here she was, right next to him, talking about this like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was small like this. Not just physically, but in a way that made her seem almost weightless, like something delicate enough to slip between his fingers if he wasn't careful. Like a fragile, ethereal porcelain door, cracked at the edges but still standing. And maybe that was why, for all the years he'd spent watching out for her, this moment felt different. It wasn't just about protecting her anymore—it was about protecting his Powder.

She had always been something untouchable, something he kept just a step away because she mattered too much to risk losing.

And now she was asking him to change that.

Ekko let out a slow breath, tilting his head back a little. It would be easy to pretend this was just another night, just another moment in the long stretch of moments they had shared. But it wasn't.

Because for the first time, Powder was asking for something real. Something that, if he let it, could change everything.

"It's kinda crazy," she murmured, shifting just enough that her shoulder brushed against his, the warmth of her body seeping into his through the thin fabric of his shirt. The scent of her perfume reached him again—soft and sweet, lingering in the air between them. It was familiar now, the kind that clung to his hoodie whenever she hugged him, embedding itself into the fabric like an unspoken reminder of her presence. Sometimes, when he wasn't thinking about it, he'd catch traces of it long after she was gone.

And then, sometimes—when he was pulling that same hoodie over his head, when he was halfway through some dumb assignment, when the world had gone quiet enough for his thoughts to drift—he'd catch the faintest trace of it, a ghost of something warm and lingering, and realize just how much space she took up in his life.  He liked it more than he'd ever admit.

She let out a small huff, her breath brushing against his sleeve. "I always thought couples at school were so cringe."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, grateful for the break in tension." I mean, they are ." He turned his head just enough to glance at her, catching the faint smirk tugging at her lips. "I don't need people making out in front of my locker first thing in the morning. Kinda ruins my day, y'know?"

Powder giggled, the sound light and unguarded, curling around him like warmth in the cold. It wasn't the sharp, manic laughter she sometimes threw around when she was trying to deflect, trying to hide. This was something else—something softer, quieter. A sound that felt like it belonged only to him.

She didn't say anything right away; she just let the moment stretch between them, easy and unhurried. Then, without thinking, she shifted again, her arm sliding around his back in a lazy, absentminded motion. Her fingers brushed against his shirt, barely there, before she tugged him into a sideways hug—loose, fleeting. But enough.

And yet, he felt it everywhere.

Ekko stayed still, like moving too much might break whatever strange, delicate thing had settled between them. His pulse did something weird, something he wasn't entirely prepared to unpack right now. Instead, he exhaled slowly, letting himself sink into the warmth of her, the weight of her against him, the way she fit there like she'd always belonged.

"I totally agree," she said, her voice lighter now but still holding that thoughtful edge. "But that's not where I was going with this…"

Her words drifted off, hanging between them like unfinished thoughts suspended in the quiet. For a moment, he assumed that was it—that she'd let whatever she was thinking slip back into silence, another one of those things she never quite found the right words for. But then she exhaled, slow and steady, and when she spoke again, her voice was different. Softer.

"I think I was scared of love."

The shift was small, barely there, but Ekko caught it instantly. The hesitance, the way her voice curled inward, like she wasn't sure she should be saying this at all. It wasn't like Powder to sound uncertain. Even when she second-guessed herself, it was always loud, defiant, full of teeth. But now, it was something else—like she was peeling back a layer of herself she never let anyone see.

She hesitated again, her gaze flickering down to where their hands were barely touching, as though she could somehow will herself to say what was on her mind. "I never really understood it," she murmured, voice quieter than usual, raw with an honesty she wasn't used to showing. "How people can just… do that. Hand themselves over, heart and soul, and trust someone with all of it. Like, they just give everything, no questions asked."

Her words seemed to hang in the air, a confession she wasn't sure she was ready to make. Ekko didn't rush her. He let the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of her own thoughts, without any pressure from him to fill it with words. His attention was on her, every flicker of emotion crossing her face, every quiet shift in her posture.

"I don't know," she continued, her voice almost breaking. "It always seemed weird to me. Like… dangerous. I was so sure love wasn't something that'd ever work for me."

He kept his gaze steady on her, not speaking, but his chest tightened, the feeling too familiar. He knew too well how it felt to lock away parts of yourself, to convince yourself that no one could possibly understand the mess of thoughts and emotions that made up who you were.

Powder moved again, her fingers brushing against his skin in a quiet, almost unnoticeable motion. It was like a hesitant apology, something unsaid but felt, a trace of vulnerability that fluttered in the space between them. She glanced away, her gaze darting to the ground, a soft tremor in her posture. It was as if the weight of the truth she was about to share was too much for her to face directly. As if, in revealing it, she'd be exposed in a way she wasn't ready for.

For a long moment, she didn't speak. Her breath seemed to catch, as if the words were caught somewhere in her chest, struggling to be set free. But when they finally came, they were quiet, tentative, like a secret she'd kept buried for so long that she wasn't sure how to let it out. "I think a part of me was just… afraid," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the confession might shatter the fragile space they shared. "Afraid that if I ever let someone see me—really see me—not the Powder everyone expects, not the one they've built in their heads, but the actual… messy, complicated me, they'd realize I wasn't worth sticking around for."

Ekko's heart twisted, a sharp, stinging ache spreading through his chest like a thousand icy needles pressing in, one by one. He hated this—hated knowing that she had been carrying something this heavy, this painful, all on her own. That it had been eating away at her in the quiet spaces between their laughter, in the moments she had smiled like nothing was wrong. And he hadn't noticed.

For a second, the weight of it felt unbearable. He wanted to take it from her, to reach into the past and erase whatever had made her feel this way, whatever had planted this doubt inside her. But all he could do now was sit here, close enough to see the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, the way her breath trembled like she wasn't sure she should've said anything at all.

Then, almost as if to soften the rawness of her confession, Powder let out a slow, uncertain breath, her shoulders dropping slightly. The tension that had wrapped around her words began to loosen, just a little. Her voice, when it came again, was softer, less burdened. "But I guess that… if it were you…" She shifted, moving closer, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine. "Then maybe it wouldn't be so scary anymore."

The words lingered between them, suspended in the quiet space they shared, like a fragile bridge stretching across the distance of their unspoken thoughts. It wasn't just a confession, it was an offering—something precious she was giving him, something she had never given anyone else before. Her fear, her uncertainty, all the parts of herself she had kept hidden away; she was letting him see them. She was trusting him, letting him take something that had been locked inside her for so long. And in that quiet, fragile moment, it felt like she was giving him a piece of her soul.

Ekko's breath hitched in his chest, his throat suddenly tight with the weight of it all. His heart was pounding now, each beat thundering in his chest, loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. She meant it. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders had softened, in the delicate vulnerability that seemed to hang around her like a soft, invisible thread. 

She meant it.

She meant it.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he squeezed her hand. Just once. It was a simple thing, but it felt like the most important thing he could do. It was a reassurance, a reminder that she didn't need to ask. That no matter what, no matter how messy or complicated or afraid she was, he would always be there.

A gentle squeeze. A silent promise.

Like a reminder that she didn't even have to ask.

Because if it was him?

He'd never let her be afraid of love again.

Powder's voice broke through the silence again, soft but charged with the weight of something intimate. "You've been so quiet all this time," she murmured, her gaze dropping to her feet. "If… If you don't feel the same way, I'm so sorry. I must have gotten the wrong idea."

Her words hung in the air, trembling with uncertainty, and for a moment, Ekko thought the world might tilt and slip out of focus. The vulnerability in her voice hit him like a punch to the gut, the kind of raw honesty that made his chest tighten. She was scared, maybe more than she'd ever been, and he could feel the weight of that fear pressing down on both of them. He didn't want her to run, to pull away. Not now, not when he'd finally found the courage to say what had been stuck in his throat for so long.

Without thinking, he reached for her, his hands moving almost instinctively, pulling her closer, his grip tightening in a way that was more desperate than he intended. He needed her to stay, to know that this moment—this fragile, uncertain moment—meant more to him than anything he could put into words.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice breaking on the last syllable, rough and strained from the weight of everything he hadn't said yet. It was all coming out too fast, everything he'd kept bottled up, spilling over the edge of his resolve like water flooding over the rim of a cup. "And it's absolutely not like that, okay?" He couldn't look at her—his eyes were focused on the ground, his hands still trembling with the weight of what he was about to say. But there was something in the air between them now, something new, fragile, and heavy all at once.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, trying to push through the thrum of panic that fluttered in his chest. The words felt too big, too much to bear. But they were already there, hanging on his lips, refusing to be ignored any longer.

"I'm just…" He paused, taking a breath, his fingers brushing her skin as he pulled her just a little closer. His heart was hammering, every beat crashing in his chest like a drum. "I'm just so honored, and shocked, honestly." His voice was quieter now, softer. "I didn't know what to say. It's just… it feels like a dream, really, because…"

He paused, his heart pounding in his chest. Was he really going to say it? Could he even say it without sounding like an idiot?

But the words were already on his tongue, and if he didn't let them out now, he was afraid they might suffocate him. "Because what do you mean, the girl I've liked for so long—finally started to notice me?"

He glanced down at her, catching the flicker of surprise that crossed her face, that weak little smile that tugged at something deep inside him. His hands were trembling—he knew she could feel it, the slight shake, the unsteady pulse of nerves. He felt it in his fingertips, in the way his pulse hammered like a drumbeat that couldn't quiet itself. When he looked at her face, her wide eyes met his, and her cheeks were flushed—whether from the heat of the summer evening or from the embarrassment of what he'd just blurted out, he wasn't sure.

But he saw it. The same surprise he felt reflected in her expression, and for a second, he almost laughed. It was funny, in a way. Neither of them had expected this. Not like this.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them thick with unspoken things, things neither of them quite knew how to say. His mind raced as he searched for the right words, feeling the weight of the moment shift as he spoke again, his voice softer now, more certain. 

"About your worries…" He trailed off for a moment, caught in the gaze that had always felt like home, like something real amidst all the chaos. "I know… I know it's scary to trust someone like that. To let yourself go, to be vulnerable. But I'm no stranger, Powder. You don't have to pretend with me. You don't have to be anything other than what you are. Because I've seen all of it. All of you. The good, the bad, the messy, the beautiful. And honestly… I don't see why you'd want to hide any of it."

He let his words linger, his eyes never leaving hers. Her lips parted slightly, a question hanging there, but he didn't wait for it. "I've seen the things you're ashamed of, the things you think are flaws, and I don't care. I don't care because they're yours. They belong to you. And you know what? I wouldn't change a single one of them."

He breathed out, the weight in his chest lightening with every word, as if the act of saying them made them real, made them more than just fleeting thoughts. "Mistakes… mistakes are human. And I think, for me, that's the most important part of love. You can't love someone without loving all of them. The whole damn mess. And I—" He hesitated, the words heavy but clear, his heart laid bare. "I think that's what I want. To love you fully. To love all of you, the way you deserve."

The hum of the world around them seemed to dissolve into nothingness, swallowed up by the quiet space between them. Time itself seemed to slow, stretching, bending, as though the very air held its breath in anticipation. Her presence was an unspoken gravity, a subtle pull that seemed to draw every inch of him toward her, until the distance between them had all but vanished. There was something about her, something magnetic that made the world feel smaller, more intimate, like it had always just been the two of them, suspended in a moment that could stretch on forever.

A faint smile played at the corners of her lips, so soft, so knowing, as if she had already anticipated the answer he would give. Maybe she had known even before he'd had a chance to find the words, before his mind could catch up to the feeling that had been simmering inside him for what felt like forever. It wasn't a smug smile, not at all. It was something more delicate—quiet confidence, gentle understanding—and in that instant, it felt like she was both waiting for him and holding him in her gaze, all at once.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to pull her hand from his, the small motion almost imperceptible, but it hung in the air like a promise. The space between them seemed to widen, but not in a way that felt like a retreat; rather, it was as if she was giving him room to breathe, to settle, to absorb whatever was unfolding between them. Her fingers hovered for the briefest moment, caught between two choices—one foot still anchored in the present, the other on the edge of something deeper, something they both seemed to be edging toward but hadn't yet fully stepped into.

And then, with a calm, unwavering grace, she cupped his cheeks in her hands. The warmth of her skin seeped into his, steady and grounding, like a touch that had been waiting for this very moment, perhaps for longer than either of them could fully understand. The touch was soft, but there was purpose in it—an assurance that he didn't need to say anything, didn't need to move, didn't need to do anything except exist in this moment with her. His breath caught in his throat, a shock of heat rushing through him as a shiver spiraled down his spine, something raw and powerful flooding the space where they touched.

For an instant, the world outside of them seemed to vanish completely. The familiar noise of the beach, the whisper of waves, the distant hum of life—all of it disappeared, leaving only the two of them suspended in a quiet, private universe. It reminded him of that night a week ago, the skatepark, the awkwardness that had filled the air like an unwanted guest, a tightness that neither of them had known how to untangle. The unease that had pulsed between them, hanging heavy in the quiet, felt like a distant memory now, something he could barely grasp at, like a half-forgotten dream.

This was different. This was something more. Her touch was deliberate, but gentle. It was intentional, like she had already mapped out every move in her mind, every gesture calculated with care, but it wasn't cold. It was thoughtful, tender, and as her fingers brushed along his jaw, coaxing his gaze upward, he couldn't fight the pull. His heart hammered in his chest, every beat loud enough to drown out his thoughts, every part of him urging him to look away, to step back, to close himself off. But there was no turning away. Not now. Not from this.

Her eyes held him, wide and knowing, but there was something more there—something that made his chest feel too small for the way his heart was swelling inside it. Her gaze seemed to hold everything he had ever wanted, everything he'd ever needed, all without saying a single word. The connection between them was tangible, a thread woven through the silence, binding them together in a way that felt inevitable, like it had always been meant to happen. It wrapped around them both, soft but unbreakable, a shield that felt as though it could stretch on forever, preserving this moment in time.

The words fell between them like fragile glass, shattering the quiet that had settled over them. She looked at him, her gaze steady, unwavering as if she were offering him a piece of herself she wasn't sure he could hold. "I want that too," she said, her voice soft but grounded, an undercurrent of something firm and resolute that seemed to echo through her words. "To give you the same... even when it won't be perfect at first." Her smile deepened, pulling at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes glinted with something quieter, warmer—something that made him ache, made the air feel heavier in his chest.

For a moment, the world felt smaller, contained in the space between them, and the weight of her sincerity pressed against him like a physical force. "We could still try, right?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper now, but it carried all the hope and vulnerability of a question that only dared to exist because she was standing on the edge of something.

The words hit him like a gust of wind, rushing through his mind, knocking everything else aside. For a long second, he forgot how to breathe, let alone speak. The empty space between them felt infinite, stretching out in a way that made it impossible to grasp the right thing to say. He searched his mind, scrambling to find something that could match the rawness of her offer, something that could give her the reassurance she was looking for, but his thoughts were scattered, lost in the whirlpool of emotions threatening to drown him.

He opened his mouth, ready to spill something—anything—that might ease the tightness in his chest, to fill the silence with words that could promise the kind of certainty they both needed. But before he could say anything, before he could make a sound, she stopped him.

Her thumb—warm, gentle—pressed against his lower lip. The touch was a soft stroke, a quiet gesture, but it felt like an explosion in his chest. The brief contact stilled him, made his heart falter. The simple touch was louder than anything he could have said, louder than the words he'd been searching for, louder than the fear that had been gnawing at him for days. It was a question, a reassurance, a connection—all in the space of a heartbeat.

His lips quivered at the feel of her skin against his, and the emotions that had been swirling within him now threatened to break free. He felt everything in that touch—the hope, the uncertainty, the raw honesty—and it left him trembling, unsure of what to do with the sudden weight of it all. It was overwhelming, in the best and worst way.

"Just so you know," she said, her lips curling slightly as she pulled her hand away, "I have absolutely zero experience. So don't expect wonders from me."

Her words were a delicate mix of humor and vulnerability, and for a second, his heart caught in his chest, his laugh escaping in a soft, almost reluctant chuckle. There was something bittersweet about it, though—like the humor couldn't quite erase the rawness underneath. He didn't know whether to feel relieved by her honesty or terrified by the weight of it. It was a strange kind of vulnerability that left him unbalanced.

"I—" He started, his voice faltering, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something that made his heart beat a little faster. "I, uh—me neither." His words stumbled over each other, as if his throat wasn't sure how to let them out. "You don't have to worry about that."

Her expression softened, and she studied him with a kind of wonder, as if he had just revealed something precious. "I'm so surprised," she said, her voice almost shy now, "that you've never had a girlfriend before... You're perfect. Emotionally mature, good-looking, and an absolute sweetheart."

The warmth of her words hit him like a wave, but it was quickly overtaken by something else, something deeper, that he couldn't ignore anymore. It was the same feeling that had been there for years—something he'd buried beneath layers of doubt and fear. A truth that had stayed hidden for so long it had almost become a part of him, a shadow that had followed him quietly through every step of his life. Now, there was no way to keep it buried. The words surged up from somewhere deep inside, spilling out before he could second-guess them.

"Because there's always been you," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. The words felt foreign on his tongue, like something he'd never dared speak aloud, something that had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be set free. He couldn't look at her then, couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. His gaze dropped to his hands, clenching them in his lap as if the act of holding himself together would keep the flood of emotion in check.

But he couldn't take it back. The truth was out now, hanging in the air between them, thick with everything he'd never been able to say. His heart pounded in his chest, and yet there was a strange, almost painful relief in the way the words had finally escaped.

"I've liked you for so long, Powder... since we were kids." His voice cracked slightly, the weight of the confession pressing against him with a force he hadn't anticipated. "It's always been you. I was never able to look at anyone else and feel the way you made me feel." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years of longing, of a love he'd never known how to express. "I waited for you all my life. Like some kind of fool, I waited."

The air between them seemed to hold its breath as he let out a quiet, almost vulnerable question, his voice dipping into a softer tone he rarely allowed anyone to hear. "Will you tell me to be patient again?" 

His words were more than just a question—they were a plea, an admission of how much he had longed for this moment. His head tilted just slightly as he shifted closer, his hands finding the gentle warmth of her touch, almost as if he could melt into it. She was everything he needed in that moment: steady, unwavering, and comforting. Her hands felt like a lifeline, like they could hold the entire world together with their warmth. If he could stop time, he would. If he could freeze the world right here, in the space between their breaths, he would never let go.

Her fingers brushed through his hair, gently guiding him closer. "I think you've waited enough," she said, her voice a low murmur, warm with affection. Her smile was small but undeniable, the kind that softened the sharp edges of his thoughts, melting away the weight that had been clinging to him. With an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she closed the space between them, her lips brushing against his with a careful tenderness.

It was just them now—two souls, damaged in ways only they understood, touching in the most tender of ways, offering pieces of themselves without words.

"I'm here." The unspoken promise was in the way she held him, in the quiet strength of her presence. And in that moment, Ekko realized he didn't need anything more. Not the past. Not the mistakes or the doubts that still clung to him like old stains. All that mattered was this—her, and him, together. It was enough.

He allowed himself to close his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, the silence around them enveloping them like a gentle cocoon. There was nothing else but this—her, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed so close to his, the way her lips seemed to linger against his, as if daring him to ask for more. His own hands moved of their own accord, slipping around her waist, urging her nearer. The connection between them felt fragile, like a thread that might snap at the slightest wrong move—but it didn't. Instead, it deepened, the space between them shrinking until they were pressed so close that it felt like they had become one, two halves of the same whole.

Her hands moved over the back of his neck, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the warm skin beneath his hairline. They moved with a kind of certainty that both grounded him and unraveled him all at once, threading into his hair, pulling him deeper into this fragile, breathless space between them. There was something impossibly gentle about her touch, something that made the world shrink down to just this—just her, just him, just the quiet hum of their shared warmth, the press of their bodies drawn together by a force neither of them ever felt before. The world outside could've been crumbling, the stars falling from the sky, and he wouldn't have noticed. Not when she was here, pressed so close, her warmth seeping into him like light through cracked windows.

He responded without thinking, his fingers slipping into her hair, following its soft curves, the way it tangled so easily between his knuckles. There was a quiet desperation in the way he pulled her closer, like he could hold onto this moment, keep it locked between them, sealed into something infinite. Every brush of her lips against his sent a spark through him, an electric jolt of something far deeper than simple desire. He let out a soft, satisfied sigh, drawn into the sensation of it, the warmth of her lips, the soft, almost dizzying feeling of being so near to someone, of sharing this quiet intimacy with her.

Her lips were softer than he ever could have imagined—so soft that it made his head swim, made his breath catch in his throat, made something deep inside him go weightless, untethered. It would have been easy to lose himself in that sensation alone, to close his eyes and let the rest of the world dissolve into the warmth of her touch.

The first kiss was barely more than a whisper, the kind of touch that could have been an accident, a hesitation hanging in the space between them. A question. But then she kissed him again, slower this time, more deliberate, and suddenly there was nothing hesitant about it. It was gentle but certain, the kind of certainty that seeped beneath his skin, curling low in his stomach and making his pulse stutter.

Each press of her lips sent heat sparking along his spine, slow-burning embers that caught and spread, winding through his veins like something alive. It wasn't the kind of fire that consumed—not the kind that left ruin in its wake—but something warmer, something steady, like striking a match in a dark room and suddenly seeing the world in color, every detail sharpened, every sensation heightened. He felt it everywhere—spreading from the point of contact, sinking into his fingertips, curling in his stomach, weaving its way into the deepest parts of him.

She tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss, and he swore the ground beneath him shifted. His hands twitched where they rested—one curled loosely against her waist, the other hovering near her jaw, caught between restraint and the overwhelming need to pull her closer. Every soft sigh, every shift of her body, every second that passed with their lips moving in quiet sync sent another ripple through him, drawing him in deeper, like the tide pulling at the shore.

It was a sensation he could only describe in fragments: poetry in the way she moved, addiction in the way she made him crave every second. It was as if the air around them shimmered with something brighter, more alive. Even with his eyes closed, it was as if the world had exploded into colors—vivid, overwhelming, like a burst of light after a long stretch of darkness. Everything in him flared, alive in a way it hadn't been in so long, and it was all because of her.

The space between them was barely a thing, a fragile moment held together by the warmth of shared air and the quiet hum of their hearts. Her breath, soft and warm, ghosted against his skin, the faintest whisper of heat beneath his nose, and for a moment—just a second—he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to catch the breath she had stolen from him. But only just. 

His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that felt too fast, too uneven, like the frantic tolling of a bell that had been struck too hard. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or something else entirely, something deeper, something that tugged at the center of him and refused to let go. Either way, he needed a second to steady himself, to make sure he wasn't losing his footing. But even as he hovered there, his lips barely apart from hers, the pull was impossible to ignore. A force as natural as gravity, as inevitable as the tide. He needed just a second to steady himself before he was right back where he wanted to be. His lips found hers again, more insistent this time, but still as tender, as if they were trying to speak without speaking, as if they were telling stories that only they could understand.

This time, the kiss was slightly different—more certain, more sure. Not rushed, never rushed, but there was something deeper woven into it, something more insistent. His lips moved against hers with quiet determination, not desperate but deliberate, like they were trying to say something neither of them could put into words. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a conversation, a story told in the language of love, of gentle presses and slow, searching movements.

It wasn't perfect. Nothing was ever perfect. But as Ekko rested his forehead against hers, the quiet beat of their breaths mingling, he knew—he didn't need anything to be perfect. It was more than enough. In that kiss, in her presence, he found something rare and precious—a space where time could bend, where the world could fall away, and all that mattered was them, tangled in each other. This—this was all he had ever wanted, all he ever needed.

He didn't need anything to be perfect. Not the world, not the timing, not even the kiss. It was enough, just this. Her warmth, her closeness, the way her presence seemed to fill him up in a way nothing else ever could. This space between them was rare, precious, a fragile thing that held everything he could ever need, everything he had ever wanted. There, in the quiet intimacy of their shared breath, Ekko found something that could never be captured in words—a peace, a completeness, that came not from perfection, but from the simple act of being with someone who saw him, who knew him, and who, in that moment, was all he needed.

As his lips found hers once more, gentle but insistent, it was as if the world outside no longer existed. It didn't matter what the future held, or how many imperfections there were waiting in the wings. All that mattered was the here and now—her lips, her touch, the quiet promise of something deeper. And in that fleeting, perfect imperfection, he let go of everything else, allowing himself to fall into the moment, into her.

The kiss was both too short and infinitely long, stretching time in a way that made no sense. The moment Powder's lips met his, the world seemed to freeze, sound slipping away, the air between them vanishing into something softer, something weightless. And yet, before he could fully register the warmth of her mouth against his, it was over—leaving behind nothing but the lingering press of her touch and the wildfire racing through his chest.

Ekko barely had time to think before instinct took over. Slowly, cautiously, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a gentle embrace. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as if she might disappear if he held her too tightly. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she relaxed into him, letting him bury his face in the crook of her neck. He exhaled against her skin, his breath shaky but content, as her familiar scent—something sweet, something distinctly her—wrapped around him, grounding him in the reality of what just happened.

She was panting softly, her breath uneven against his shoulder, and for a second, he wanted to tease her about it—only to realize he wasn't faring any better. His own chest rose and fell just as rapidly, his heartbeat refusing to slow, his thoughts a tangle of disbelief and euphoria. He'd imagined this a hundred times before, had let himself get lost in the daydream more than he cared to admit, but nothing—not a single fantasy—had prepared him for how it would actually feel.

A quiet chuckle broke the silence. "Guess the awkward silence after a first kiss isn't a myth after all," Powder murmured, her voice warm with amusement.

"Guess not," Ekko huffed a soft laugh in return, shifting just enough to pull back slightly. His arms remained around her, but he moved far enough to see her face, to drink in every little detail—the pink dusting her cheeks, the way her blue eyes gleamed in the low light, the way her lips, still slightly parted, looked impossibly inviting. He tried to meet her gaze, but his eyes kept flickering downward, drawn helplessly to them. He still couldn't quite believe that he had actually kissed her, that the heat still lingering on his own mouth wasn't just a trick of his imagination.

His voice came out quieter than he intended. "Do you regret it?"

Powder tilted her head, as if considering the question, but the small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her lips gave her away before she even answered. "No," she said easily. "It was nice. And it's cool to know my first kiss wasn't a total fail." Her grin widened slightly, just before she leaned in and pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to his cheek. It was barely anything, just a brief touch of warmth, but it sent a new rush of heat through his body all the same.

Ekko swallowed hard, trying to play it cool despite the way his heart had just somersaulted. 

"Do you?" she asked.

"Do I—" Ekko blinked, shaking his head, his disbelief almost laughable. "Are you serious?" He tightened his grip on her waist just slightly, steadying himself as he searched for the right words. "This is what I wanted for so long, Pow." The words tumbled out before he could second-guess them, his heart pushing past his uncertainty. He hesitated, then let out a small, self-conscious laugh. "I don't wanna sound weird, but I thought about it so often. I—" He cut himself off, shifting his gaze away, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense considering what just happened. "I even dreamt of it once or twice," he admitted under his breath. "That's how crazy you made me for you."

Powder blinked, then snorted. "You're telling me you literally dreamed about kissing me?"

Ekko groaned, dropping his head against her shoulder. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no, this is great." Her voice carried an unmistakable delight, and the way she was grinning at him—wide, teasing, completely unrepentant—made it clear she was getting far too much enjoyment from his discomfort. "So, what were these dreams like? Super romantic? Dramatic? Did I dip you?"

"Powder."

"Oh, come on," she urged, her voice lowering just a touch as her fingers trailed lightly along the back of his neck. It was a move that had the unsettling effect of making his thoughts scatter, like his mind couldn't decide whether to stay grounded in the conversation or simply get lost in the way her touch was sending little sparks of warmth through his skin. "I need details."

He exhaled sharply, pulling back just enough to look at her. She was still smiling, but her expression had softened just a little, curiosity glimmering behind the mischief.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, the fight in him dissipating under the weight of her gaze. "…They weren't that dramatic," he admitted after a long pause, voice softer now, as if he had to shake off the humor before he could speak honestly. "But they always felt real. Like…” His words drifted for a moment, trying to find the right way to explain the strange, aching weight that came with those dreams. "I'd wake up, and for a second, I'd think it actually happened. Like you—like everything was just how it was in the dream. And then I'd realize it didn't, and it would just…" His voice trailed off, a heaviness pulling down his chest. "Suck."

She was quiet for a moment, but he could feel her studying him. The playful spark in her eyes was still there, but now it was softened by something more. It was the kind of look that made him feel exposed, like she could see right through him without saying a word. And then, with the most infuriating smirk, she opened her mouth again.

"So basically," she said, her voice dragging out the words like she was savoring each one, "you've been pining."

Ekko groaned again, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe away the sheer ridiculousness of this entire situation. It didn't work, obviously. The absurdity remained, hanging thick in the air between them, but before he could stew in it too long, something slipped out—small, unguarded, and completely against his will. A laugh.

Breathless. Unintended. Real.

The moment the sound hit the air, he saw it—the way Powder's grin widened, all sharp edges and mischief, her wide blue eyes flashing with triumph like she'd just won some kind of game he hadn't even realized they were playing. And maybe she had. Maybe, from the second she started messing with him, she'd been waiting for this exact moment, for the crack in his composure, for that one sign that she'd finally, undeniably gotten to him.

Yeah, no. He wasn't about to let that slide.

His hands found her waist. Tightened.

There was half a second—just enough time for realization to flicker across Powder's face—before he moved. With no warning, he dipped her back, his grip steady as he tipped her dangerously close to the ground.

Powder's reaction was immediate. A sharp yelp burst from her throat, her whole body jolting as her fingers clenched instinctively in the fabric of his shirt. "Oh my god—Ekko!"

For once, her usual reckless confidence cracked, her legs kicking slightly as she scrambled to keep her balance despite the fact that he had her. Ekko felt the way she tensed under his hands, the way she curled inward, her weight shifting in a desperate attempt to counteract the sudden movement. It was automatic, pure reflex.

And he reveled in it.

"Something wrong?" he asked, voice deceptively smooth, though he knew she could hear the grin in it. "You seemed real sure of yourself a second ago."

Her grip tightened. "Don't you dare—"

Ekko pretended to consider. Then, ever so slightly, he loosened his hold.

Powder shrieked.

Not a real, panicked scream—more of a high-pitched, indignant noise that shattered into breathless laughter the second she realized he wasn't actually going to drop her. She smacked his shoulder with one hand, still gripping his shirt with the other, her whole body curling inward as her giggles shook through her.

He only grinned, holding her there, just a little longer than necessary, feeling the way her breath hitched against him. The warmth of her body pressed to his was something steady, grounding, something he didn't think too hard about, or he'd lose his nerve.

Her wide eyes searched his, startled, but there was something else beneath the shock—something breathless, something dangerously close to euphoria.

And damn it , he felt it, too.

"If I'm gonna suffer," he drawled, his grip firm but easy, his voice just a little rougher than usual, "so are you."

For a moment, they stayed like that—her half-suspended in his arms, the warmth of his hold steady but unhurried. The night air pressed close around them, thick with the scent of salty water and something unspoken, something fragile and electric in the space between them. Powder wasn't heavy—not to him, at least—but he still felt the way she leaned into him, her body caught between trusting his grip and the thrill of the fall.

Then, with a sudden, dramatic sigh, she went completely limp, her head tilting back like some tragic heroine in an old noir film.

"Oh, woe is me," she lamented, voice dripping with theatrical sorrow. "Betrayed by my own hubris."

Ekko huffed out a laugh, shaking his head but making no move to let her go just yet. "You're so—"

"What? Stunning? Tragic? The perfect picture of a fallen genius?" She cracked one eye open, peering up at him with the kind of wicked grin that always spelled trouble. "C'mon, you can say it. I won't let it go to my head. Much."

He snorted, shifting his grip as he pulled her back upright, feeling the way her weight settled naturally against him before she found her own balance. She was still grinning, her fingers lingering in his shirt, and there was something about the way she looked at him now—something softer at the edges, like the moment had turned into more than just a joke.

"Guess I've got a lot to make up for, huh?" she murmured, voice still teasing but quieter now, like she was half-thinking out loud.

Ekko swallowed. His heart was still racing, but the weight that had once come with wanting her, with not knowing if he'd ever get to have this—

It was gone.

He met her gaze, and this time, he didn't look away.

"Yeah," he admitted, a slow grin tugging at his lips. "But I think you're off to a good start."

But then, like a shadow creeping in through the cracks, doubt settled in the corners of his mind—unshakable, unwelcome. It wasn't loud, not the kind of fear that sent his heart racing or made his hands tremble. No, this was quieter, heavier. The kind that seeped into his thoughts and made a home there, whispering in the spaces between reason and instinct, telling him to hold his tongue, to keep his feelings locked away where they couldn't be seen, couldn't be used against him.

Ekko's gaze lingered on her, drawn in by something he couldn't name—something fragile, something dangerous. The words he'd been swallowing down for what felt like forever pressed against the back of his throat, restless, insistent. For a moment, he considered staying silent, letting them die in his mouth the way so many others had before. But something in the way she looked at him, something unguarded, something real, broke past the walls he'd built.

And before he could stop himself, before doubt could sink its claws in any deeper, the words spilled out—raw, unpolished, pulled from a place deeper than uncertainty.

"I have to ask, because this… this really matters to me." He exhaled, his breath barely audible as he continued, his words stumbling out in that quiet, earnest way that only seemed to surface when he was with her. "What are we now, Pow? I mean… we kissed, and I—I don't want to make assumptions, but I need to know. Are we a couple now? Or is this still... something else? Are we just experimenting, or…" His voice faltered, the fear of the second possibility threatening to choke him. "If you're not sure, or you want to keep things the way they were, I just—I need to know. Because the thought of us being on different pages... it—" He trailed off, shaking his head, frustration and fear knotting in his throat. "It—it would really mess me up."

His words cut off, the weight of the question hanging between them like an anchor. He wasn't sure why he couldn't just let it go, why it felt like he had to ask, even though the answer could break him. The uncertainty gnawed at him, the doubt spiraling faster than he could catch it. His fingers tightened around hers, his heart hammering in his chest.

"You being my girlfriend… it would make me the happiest guy alive, Pow. I've wanted that for so long. But I know you're not exactly the type for... labels and all that. If you want to keep it secret, or… keep things unofficial, I can handle that. Just… I don't know. I need to understand where we stand."

He finally looked up at her, his eyes searching for some kind of sign, some glimmer of understanding that could ground him in something solid. It was terrifying, the thought that everything he'd hoped for might crumble, but he needed to hear her say it—needed to know if she felt the same, if she was willing to take the leap with him.

Before he could spiral further, she cut in gently, her voice a soft anchor pulling him back from the edge of his mind. "Ekko," she said, her tone a little firmer now, but still filled with that warmth that always made him feel like home. Her fingers slipped from his grasp as she cupped his face, turning him towards her. He hadn't realized how much his mind had been running in circles until she stopped him so simply, so effortlessly.

"I told you," she continued, her words slow, deliberate, like she was making sure they landed where they needed to. "I want to try. I want to give this a real chance, Ekko. That includes being your girlfriend."

The simple, unassuming honesty of her words knocked the wind out of him. Their weight pressed into him gently, and a constant, steady presence sank into him like the warmth of sunlight on his skin after a cold morning. It was as if the tension in the room, the space between them that had felt too wide, too impossible to cross, was shrinking. Bit by bit, he could feel the distance between them closing, the gap filling with something both new and terrifying.

"I don't have much experience with this stuff." She shrugged slightly, her eyes softening, like she was admitting something vulnerable, but it wasn't a weakness. No, it was a kind of strength. "But that doesn't change how I feel. I want to learn. I want to love you... loud, and open, and honest. Because you deserve that. You deserve someone who isn't afraid to claim you, to shout from the rooftops about how amazing you are. And I want to be that person for you."

Ekko blinked, his mind struggling to make sense of what she'd said. The words hung in the air between them, dense and heavy, as if they'd cracked open something inside him. It was like a dam, one he hadn't even realized he'd built, had finally given way, and all the pressure he'd been holding in for who knew how long rushed forward in torrents. For a split second, the world seemed to tilt, and it felt like he couldn't breathe—not from a lack of air, but from the sudden, overwhelming shift in everything. The weight he hadn't known he was carrying, the quiet ache of it, had been pulled away, leaving a strange hollow in its place.

His chest felt both lighter and more fragile in the same breath, and the emptiness left by the release was raw, disorienting. He tried to steady himself, but his gaze was fixed on Powder, searching her face for any hint of doubt. Was she joking? Was this some kind of joke, something fleeting that would slip through his fingers as quickly as it had come? He searched her eyes, desperate for a flicker of hesitation, a nervous twitch, anything to show that this wasn't real.

But there was nothing.

Her eyes were steady, wide, and unblinking, filled with a kind of truth that took him off guard. It wasn't the usual mischief or playful teasing he was used to. It wasn't the kind of lighthearted banter they could always fall back on. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a fleeting sentiment. This was something deeper, something that cut through the layers of jokes and bravado to hit him where it counted. Her gaze held no trickery, no escape route. She wasn't running from this, from him. She was right here, sitting in front of him with the kind of quiet honesty he hadn't known how to ask for, or even recognize when it was being offered.

He didn't know what to do with it.

The weight in his chest shifted again, a strange pressure building behind his ribs, and just when he thought he might be able to pull himself together, it came—sharp, sudden, and without warning. A sting pricked at the back of his eyes, and before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek. It was slow at first, the kind of thing he might've been able to blink away. But then another followed, and then another, until their warmth was undeniable.

He lifted a hand to his face, as if trying to hold everything in, but it was futile. The tears came in a steady, relentless stream, each drop feeling like a wave that had been building inside him for far too long. They caught him off guard, the first few, but then they kept coming, faster, harder, until he was no longer able to pretend he wasn't drowning in them. His chest tightened with each breath, his throat constricting as if he could physically stop it, but the pressure inside him only grew, filling him with an aching emptiness that seemed to spread through every inch of him.

He wanted to hide, to bury his face in his hands, to make it stop—but it was already too late. The dam inside of him hadn't just cracked; it had shattered completely, and now the flood had taken over, impossible to control. The tears weren't just a release—they felt like surrender. A raw, uncontrollable admission of something he'd been holding back for too long.

He didn't know what to do. His hand trembled as it pressed against his cheek, trying to catch some semblance of control, but all it did was smear the evidence of his breakdown, making him feel more exposed, more vulnerable than he'd ever felt before. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that might stop it, but the tears didn't care.

"Shit…" The word escaped him in a broken gasp, like he was choking on the weight of it all. His voice cracked, splintering with the shame he couldn't seem to shake off. He felt stupid, like some helpless mess, sitting there in front of her, letting everything spill out. The burning heat of his face only intensified the moment he realized how much of a disaster he must look—tears and snot running down his face, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He quickly raised his hand again, not to wipe his face, but to hide it, to shield himself from her, as though somehow his palm against his forehead could stop the flood, make him disappear.

"I—uh, don't look," he muttered, the words barely coming out, jagged and frantic. He could hear the panic in his voice, the desperation curling through each syllable. His whole body felt like it was being pulled apart—like if he could just make her not look at him, make himself disappear, maybe he could breathe again. Maybe he could make it stop. But the shame just kept crawling up his neck, a burning heat that spread through him like wildfire. It was suffocating, so suffocating he could hardly focus, couldn't hear anything except the spiraling mess of thoughts in his head. This is embarrassing. You're making it worse. Stop.

But Powder didn't laugh. She didn't snicker or make some biting remark to try and ease the tension, like she usually would. She didn't pull away, didn't recoil from the rawness of the moment. Instead, she leaned in, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was taking everything in without rushing to fix it, without pushing him to be anything but what he was right now.

Ekko froze when he felt her fingers gently wrap around his wrist, steady and sure, like she knew exactly what he needed without asking. The touch was grounding in a way he hadn't expected. It was soft, but there was a firmness to it too, like she wasn't going anywhere, wasn't about to let him fall apart alone. His heart stuttered for a moment, the frantic spiral he'd been trapped in pausing just long enough to feel the warmth of her hand against his skin.

She didn't say anything right away. She didn't need to. She simply tugged his hand away from his face, slowly, deliberately, like she was giving him a moment to breathe without making it a big deal. The movement was gentle, but her grip on his wrist was unyielding, the kind of hold that made him feel like she was giving him a space to be weak without judgment. She guided his hand down, pulling it until it rested by his side, and when he didn't try to pull away, she let it stay there.

"Ekko," she said softly, her voice a quiet balm against the jagged edges of his shame. It wasn't rushed, wasn't forced. It was just… there, steady and warm, filling the empty spaces that had been gnawing at him. "You're all good. You don't need to hide from me."

Her words slipped under his defenses like water seeping through cracks. He wasn't sure when it happened, but something inside him loosened. The tension in his chest, and the tightness in his throat all started to shift just enough for him to breathe again. She wasn't pulling away from him, wasn't seeing him as anything less for breaking in front of her. Instead, she was grounding him in the way only she could—reminding him that there was nothing to be ashamed of in this, in feeling this way, in needing someone to see him like this. To be this raw.

Ekko blinked rapidly, his hand still resting limply at his side as he fought against the tears that wouldn't stop. He could feel them, a steady stream, and no matter how much he willed himself to stop, they kept coming. His chest shook with the effort to breathe, but there was something different this time. It wasn't the suffocating panic that had been eating away at him; it was the strange release of everything he'd been holding back, all of it pouring out, and for the first time in a long while, it didn't feel like he was drowning in it. Not completely.

"You told me so many times that crying is okay," she continued, her voice quiet but firm. "So why would it be any different for you?"

Her words settled over him, soft and comforting, but their warmth only seemed to make the tears flow harder. He had always told her it was okay to cry, to not hide the messy parts of themselves, but hearing it come from her—hearing her say it to him—felt like something else entirely. Like it was okay for him to not have everything together, okay for him to just... break a little.

"It's just… pathetic. I don't know."

The words barely made it out, strained and uneven, thick with something he couldn't swallow down no matter how hard he tried. His breath hitched mid-sentence, breaking apart like brittle glass, and he hated it—hated how weak he sounded, how the tremor in his voice betrayed him before he could choke it back down.

A sharp sniffle broke the silence, and he clenched his jaw, his shoulders shaking as he fought against the quiet, humiliating sounds threatening to claw their way out. The hiccups, the ragged inhales, the way his throat kept catching on emotions too tangled to unravel. It all made him feel small, like a child on the verge of a tantrum, except there was no kicking or screaming, just this awful, suffocating weight pressing down on him from the inside.

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to sting, desperate for anything to tether himself, anything to make this stop. But the tears kept slipping through the cracks, hot and relentless, streaking down his face in silent defiance. It wasn't fair. He should be able to pull himself together, to at least pretend, to shove it all somewhere deep enough that even he wouldn't have to look at it. But every shaky breath, every uneven exhale, felt like an admission of something raw and fragile, something he wasn't ready to name.

And then—warmth.

Fingertips traced the curve of his cheek, warm and steady, brushing away the dampness clinging to his skin. The touch was light, unhurried—like a presence rather than an action, something meant to be felt rather than noticed. She didn't press, didn't try to coax him into speaking or force him to meet her eyes. She just stayed, her hand a quiet anchor against the storm still raging inside him.

"It's not," she murmured, her voice soft but certain, a thread of quiet conviction woven through the words. "Sweetheart, it's not pathetic."

The tenderness in her tone cut through him sharper than any harshness ever could. He swallowed thickly, his breath still uneven, lingering in the space between shaky and broken. His first instinct was to argue—to insist that it was pathetic, that he was pathetic—but the words caught in his throat, tangled up in the weight of exhaustion and something else, something he couldn't quite name.

Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes flickered upward.

She was already looking at him. Not with pity, not with judgment, but with something steady, something unwavering. The kind of look that didn't flinch even when everything else inside him felt like it was falling apart. There was no expectation in her gaze, no pressure for him to pull himself together or explain the mess of emotions threatening to spill over. Just quiet understanding, patient and unshaken.

"You never cry in front of me."

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like the edge of a knife—not sharp enough to wound, just enough to press, to make him feel it. Her thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along his cheekbone.

She let out a small, thoughtful hum, her thumb still smoothing over his skin, grounding him in something gentle, something safe. "And I really wish you would," she continued, watching him carefully. Then, after a beat, her lips curled at the edges, a small, teasing thing that softened the weight of her words. "Not because I'm a sadist, obviously."

Somehow, impossibly, he laughed.

It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but real—something raw and unexpected cracking through the tightness in his chest. She felt it more than she heard it, the way his shoulders shook just the tiniest bit, the way his fingers finally loosened their tense grip like he was allowing himself to exist in this moment instead of just enduring it.

"I want you to cry in front of me."

Her words were slower now, softer, like she was afraid the words might break if she spoke them too loud. But there was no hesitation in them, no uncertainty—just quiet conviction, steady and sure. "Not because I want to see you hurt," she continued, "but because it would mean you trust me. That you know you don't have to carry it alone."

Something in his chest tightened, sharp and aching, curling into itself like a fist clenched too tight. He had spent so long holding everything in, turning pain into silence, into late nights staring at the ceiling, into exhaustion he pretended wasn't there. He had never been good at letting people see the cracks, never let anyone close enough to pry them open. But here she was, hands pressed against the edges of him like she could feel the fractures beneath her fingertips, asking for something he wasn't sure he knew how to give.

His throat burned, the weight of it thick and suffocating. When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.

"I'm sorry."

The words landed between them like a confession, like an unraveling. And maybe that's what this was—something breaking open, something spilling out after being held in for too long.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers threaded gently into the back of his hair, settling at the nape of his neck, grounding him. Her touch was warm, steady, careful, like she was afraid he might disappear if she wasn't careful enough.

"No, I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn't rely on me," she murmured, voice thick with something she wasn't even sure she had the words for. "Like your feelings didn't matter, or like I wasn't really seeing you." She swallowed, her fingers curling slightly where they rested against him. "I never wanted that. And if I did—if I ever made you feel like you had to hold it in—just know that I won't let that happen again."

Something flickered across his face, something raw and unguarded, gone before it could settle. He kept his eyes down, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders had gone rigid beneath the weight of everything he wasn't saying.

Her fingers tightened, just a little, a silent promise.

"I'll do better," she whispered, the words slipping into the space between them, quiet but certain. "I'll do everything I can to change that."

"And I know where to start."

Her voice was soft, steady—more certain than he expected. She reached out, fingers curling under his chin, tilting his head up with gentle insistence. An invitation. A quiet plea to meet her gaze. And when he did, there it was again—that smile. The one that wasn't just a curve of her lips but something fuller, something warmer, something that lived in her eyes too. It was the kind of smile that didn't just exist—it spoke, in quiet, unguarded ways.

She hesitated before speaking, her breath catching in a way that made it clear this wasn't easy for her. "I've been meaning to say this," she began, voice quieter than usual, each word carefully chosen, like she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. "Last week… I wanted to talk to you more. I really did." She paused, exhaling sharply, as if frustrated with herself. "But I got scared. Not of you—never of you. Just… of my own feelings. Of what they meant. Of what they could change."

Her fingers twitched under his chin, like she was fighting the urge to fidget, to turn away. But she didn't. She stayed, holding his gaze even as something uneasy flickered in her own. "And instead of facing them, I panicked. I told myself I needed space, time to think, time to figure things out—but instead of actually doing that, I just—" She let out a breathy, self-deprecating laugh, shaking her head. "I went inside. Just like that. No 'thank you,' no 'sorry.' Not even a look back. Just… gone."

She let the silence stretch for a moment, letting its weight settle between them. Then, softer, "That wasn't fair to you." Her thumb brushed against his skin absentmindedly, as if grounding herself in the moment, in him. "I know that probably hurt. And I hate that I made you feel that way."

She took a breath, one that felt like a quiet reset, a shift from the past to the present. When she spoke again, there was something different in her tone—not just regret, but resolve.

"So tonight, I want to do things right. I'm inviting you over. Not just because I feel bad, not just to make up for last week—but because I want you there. I want you to know how much I enjoy being with you. More than anyone else." Her smile softened, turning a little more vulnerable, a little more real. "I'm not scared to talk about this anymore. Well, okay—maybe a little. But I'm done running away. I want to try. I want to make this better."

Her fingers curled slightly against his skin, hesitant for just a fraction of a second before she pressed on, voice quieter now, but no less firm. "I want you to feel like you can be in my space, any time. Not just as a friend, but as… more. As my boyfriend."

A small pause. A breath, a heartbeat.

"So," she tilted her head slightly, teasing, hopeful, just the slightest bit nervous, "would you be down for our first sleepover—not just as my best friend, but as something more?"

"Of course," he said, his voice softer now, carrying the weight of everything he couldn't quite put into words. The quiet smile that tugged at the corners of his lips wasn't forced this time—it was small, a little shaky, but real. His eyes still burned, raw from the tears he'd already shed, and the lingering sting made it impossible to forget just how vulnerable he'd been mere moments ago. He'd broken down in front of her, voice cracking, shoulders shaking, spilling every ugly, unfiltered thought onto the space between them. And yet, she hadn't looked away. Hadn't recoiled. Hadn't made him feel small for falling apart.

Instead, she had listened. Had understood. Had found the exact words to pull him back from the edge, stitching him together with nothing but patience and quiet reassurance.

Now, the storm in his chest had settled—not gone, not entirely, but no longer threatening to swallow him whole. His breath came easier, no longer trembling on the exhale.

"It would be an honor," he added, and this time, there was no hesitation.

She arched a brow, her smirk unmistakable as she leaned in just slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, an honor , huh? " she echoed, drawing out the word like she was turning it over in her mind, testing its weight. Then, with a teasing lilt, she added, "Well, I hope helping me clean up after this picnic will be just as much of an honor, 'cause there's no way in hell I'm picking up all this stuff by myself."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head at him with that expectant look—the kind that all but dared him to argue. A challenge wrapped in amusement, her grin sharp enough to cut. The breeze toyed with the loose strands of her hair, carrying the scent of salt and the lingering traces of their meal. Around them, the picnic blanket was a battlefield of half-empty containers, crumbs stubbornly clinging to the fabric, and a lone napkin that fluttered dangerously close to escape.

The basket, once neatly arranged with the kind of care that suggested someone—definitely not him—had taken their time packing it, now lay open and in complete disarray. An overturned container of fruit, a half-eaten pastry abandoned near the edge. It was a disaster, really, but also a proof of just how much they'd let themselves get lost in the moment.

Ekko exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as his gaze flicked over the mess. A quiet chuckle slipped from his lips, half amused, half resigned. "So that's how it is, huh? I get sweet talk first, then the manual labor."

"Exactly." Her grin was nothing short of triumphant, bright, and shameless as she rocked back slightly, bracing herself on her palms. "I knew you'd catch on eventually."