IF I LET YOU IN

Chapter Five — The Walls

The next week felt heavier than it had any right to.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him—the way he noticed without pressing, the calm gravity of his presence, the almost-touch that had left my skin tingling long after I walked away. But with every thought came the familiar tug of fear, whispering that letting someone in was a mistake I couldn’t afford.

I spent hours pacing my apartment, staring out at the city skyline, feeling both restless and claustrophobic. My life was orderly. Predictable. Safe. And yet, something about Eli had shattered that safety without touching anything. He had invaded my routine, my thoughts, my chest… without permission.

I told myself to avoid the café. To skip our usual corners. To pretend he didn’t exist. That’s what I always did. It was easier that way. Safer.

But of course, I wasn’t that disciplined.

Thursday morning, I found myself walking past the corner café anyway. My boots echoed against the wet pavement as I debated whether to turn away. My chest was tight, but curiosity—a dangerous, relentless force—won.

And there he was.

Not waiting. Not staring. Not expecting. Just… sitting, sipping his black coffee, the book open in front of him like it belonged there. And my resolve crumbled.

I entered the café, chose my usual corner seat, and tried to appear calm. My hands were shaking, though I didn’t allow it to show. I told myself this was just coincidence. A shared habit. Nothing more.

He glanced up, noticed me, and smiled softly. That smile—steady, knowing, patient—made me want to flee and stay at the same time.

“Morning,” he said lightly.

“Morning,” I replied, tone flat, words clipped.

He tilted his head slightly. “You seem… tense.”

I looked down at my chai. “I’m fine,” I said automatically. My voice didn’t match the churn in my chest.

He didn’t push. That was the problem. That patience was more dangerous than any demand or accusation. He let me come to him—or retreat—on my own terms.

I tried to follow the rules. Don’t stay where you feel too much. Don’t let anyone see you unravel. Don’t confess longing out loud.

But even as I reminded myself, I felt his presence like gravity, impossible to ignore.

“Are you reading the same book again?” he asked, nodding toward my worn copy.

“Yes,” I muttered, flipping the page without looking. “It’s… comforting.”

“Comfort is underrated,” he said. “People chase excitement, forget that comfort builds depth.”

I glanced at him, noting the quiet intensity in his eyes. Depth. Comfort. Patience. Dangerous words. Dangerous person. My chest ached, and I wanted to look away, to retreat.

And I did.

I shifted in my seat, hands tightening around the cup. “I think I have to go,” I said abruptly.

He looked at me for a long moment. Not surprised. Not upset. Just… aware. “Okay,” he said softly. “If you need space, take it.”

I left. The walk home was heavy, the drizzle soaking my hair, the city’s hum dimmed by the storm inside me. Part of me wanted to text him immediately, tell him I couldn’t stop thinking about him, that his patience was killing me in the best way possible.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I buried myself in work, in routines, in anything that might quiet the turmoil. Yet, no matter how I tried, the memory of him—his voice, his eyes, the brush of his hand—haunted every corner of my mind.

By Saturday, I realized avoidance wasn’t working. It hadn’t worked since the first moment he appeared. Every time I tried to retreat, he appeared again. In cafés, on the streets, in thoughts I couldn’t control.

I hated it.

And that’s when I noticed the subtle things he was doing.

Not obvious gestures. Not flirtation. Not intrusion. Just… gentle tests of my walls. The way he’d comment on something personal without asking too much. The way he’d linger near my table, letting me decide if I wanted him there. The way he smiled softly at the smallest acknowledgment I gave him.

It was infuriating. Dangerous.

I caught myself thinking about him at night, tracing the memory of his hands, the warmth in his chest, the calm steadiness of his presence. And I knew I was already too far gone to follow my own rules.

So I tried a new rule.

Rule ten: build walls higher. Stronger. Thicker.

I avoided his usual corner on Monday. I walked past the cafés on Tuesday. I sat at home Wednesday. I told myself absence would protect me, that distance would calm the chaos he’d stirred in my chest.

And it worked. Sort of.

Until Thursday, when I saw him again, leaning against the doorway of the café, eyes scanning the crowd, calm as ever. That gravity—silent, patient, unshakable—pulled me forward, closer than I intended to go.

“Back again,” he said softly, almost amused.

I shrugged, attempting indifference. “Coincidence.”

He tilted his head slightly, that small gesture that made it impossible to lie. “Sure,” he said, but the corner of his mouth lifted, acknowledging without judgment.

I sat, heart hammering, and wondered why patience could feel so aggressive.

We talked, cautiously. He asked about my week. I deflected, careful to keep the conversation safe, light. Small talk. Controlled. Yet the air between us was charged, electric, full of almost-touch moments and lingering glances.

I hated that it was working. Hated that my walls, no matter how high, could not keep him out.

Hours passed in a blur. I told myself it didn’t matter. That I could leave, and my fortress would remain intact.

But when the time came to stand, my chest constricted, every instinct screaming that leaving was losing.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, calm, soft, patient.

I hesitated, aware of the pull, aware of my fear. The words tasted like truth and terror all at once. “Maybe,” I said finally.

And just like that, my walls had cracked, though I wouldn’t admit it even to myself.

Walking home, rain washing over me, I realized that Eli wasn’t just testing my walls. He was showing me that some walls weren’t built to keep love out—they were built to hold fear in.

And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to let a little of that fear go.