ThePull
734 Words
Three days passed without a message.
No calls. No cars waiting outside. No subtle texts that made her pulse race.
Amara told herself she preferred the silence.
But every time her phone lit up, she looked anyway.
By the fourth night, the quiet began to ache. The city buzzed beneath her window, restless and alive, while she sat sketching the same design over and over—a dress shaped like a secret she didn’t know how to keep.
A sharp knock startled her. Not firm like before—hesitant.
She opened the door expecting the delivery man.
It was Damian.
He looked exhausted; the precision she always saw in him had cracks tonight. His tie hung loose, his hair slightly undone by the wind. Yet his eyes — still that dangerous gray — held the same power.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t stay away.”
“You made it clear we needed distance.”
“I lied.”
Amara folded her arms, trying to shield the way her chest betrayed her. “You don’t get to disappear and then decide you miss me.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Miss you?” He stepped closer. “That doesn’t cover it.”
She tried to retreat, but he stopped just short of touching her. “I came to apologize,” he said. “And to explain.”
“For controlling my life?”
“For caring more than I should.”
The words struck deeper than she wanted them to. His tone wasn’t sharp this time—it was tired, almost human.
“You don’t have to protect me,” she whispered.
“Maybe not,” he said, “but I need to.”
She turned away, pretending to rearrange papers on the table. “Every time I start to breathe again, you show up and take the air.”
“Because I can’t stand the thought of someone else doing the same,” he answered.
Her heartbeat stumbled. “That’s not love, Damian. That’s obsession.”
He moved closer. “Maybe the line between the two is thinner than we like to admit.”
Silence expanded around them, thick as the night pressing at the window.
She faced him again. “You can’t keep invading my space,” she said—but her voice had lost its edge.
“Then tell me to stop.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
His words landed like a dare. Her hand lifted before she could stop it, pressing flat against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, heavy, real.
“See?” he murmured. “You don’t want me gone.”
Her breath shook. “You make everything dangerous.”
“Only because you keep walking toward it.”
She dropped her hand as if burned, stepping back—but he caught her wrist gently. “Amara.”
She met his eyes, ready to fight, but found something unexpected there: restraint. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked uncertain.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I just don’t know how to want less.”
Something in her broke then—the part of her that always needed control, the part that feared surrender. Her voice came out small. “Neither do I.”
He released her wrist slowly, his fingers lingering just long enough for heat to replace anger. The tension between them was alive—unspoken, undeniable.
“You should go,” she whispered.
“I know.”
But he didn’t. Not yet. They stood inches apart, two storms circling the same sky, neither willing to pass.
Finally, he exhaled, a sound half relief, half regret. “If I stay, I won’t be able to keep my promises.”
“Then don’t make any,” she said.
He almost smiled. “Careful, Amara. You sound like me now.”
And then he left—quietly, deliberately—closing the door before she could decide if she wanted him to.
She leaned against the wood, breathing hard, heart somewhere between fury and longing. The air still carried his scent.
Her phone buzzed. One message.
Next time, I won’t stop at the door.
She typed back before she could think.
Maybe I won’t ask you to.
Teaser:
The line between them finally blurred—and neither wanted it drawn again.
- Writer
