-Rowan.
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"I wanna give,
I wanna give my love to you completely,
I beg of you,
I beg of you to listen to my heart.
I've never prayed like this before,
And I'm askin' you not to close the door,
For I can tame the wind and smooth the waters,
If you just let me."
The song drifted into the room like candle smoke—faint, curling into the cracks of thought, making a home in my ribs.
We weren't the only ones dancing.
No, the room was already full—of stories. Of people who had held the same hand through decades of heartbreak, of war, of children raised and buried, of sleepless nights and Wednesday grocery runs and the soft kind of love that never made it to poetry but still held the world together.
Elderly couples spun gently around us, their pace a murmur, their bodies like soft clockwork—limbs that remembered each other through arthritis and grief. A woman in a red silk shawl leaned against her partner like a memory she still trusted. An old man with tremoring fingers kissed his wife's forehead just beneath the hairline, like he'd done it every Sunday for fifty years.
No one looked in a rush. No one posed. It was a ballroom of quiet survival. Of love that had outlived expectations.
And in the middle of them, somehow, absurdly, impossibly—us.
I wasn't sure when we started moving. Maybe I never stopped. Maybe I'd been moving toward him this whole time.
He was real, warm, held between my arms like something I didn't dare close my eyes around—terrified he'd vanish if I blinked too long. His head barely reached my collarbone, his body relaxed but alert, like he too wasn't fully convinced this was happening. Like we were both waiting for the floor to drop out from under us.
The ballroom was a jewel box of hush and amber light. Crystal chandeliers hung low like frozen fireworks, casting golden flares over the polished parquet floors. Waiters in sharp black vests moved like whispers through the tables, barely touching the space around them. And in every corner of the room, elderly couples danced slowly—worn shoes shuffling against time, smiles flickering like old film reels. It smelled faintly of bergamot, caramelized pears, and something older—dusty perfume, maybe, clove cigarettes half-remembered.
And there we were. Me and him. Tucked among them like an echo with a heartbeat.
Reed wore a soft grey sweater layered over a white-collared shirt, sleeves scrunched messily at his elbows, as if he'd given up halfway through looking presentable. The collar peeked up from beneath the wool, slightly askew. His trousers were light, loose-fitting, the color of rain-soaked stone. A quiet outfit for someone who never needed to shout to be seen. His hair was still a little messy from the wind, falling over his brow in dark, jagged lines. When I ran my fingers lightly down his back, I felt the outline of his spine shift beneath fabric, his warmth soaking through like sunlight under snow.
And me—I wore black. Of course I did. I'd always worn black when I needed armor. A fitted turtleneck beneath a long wool coat, tailored with sharp shoulders and a single gold pin near the lapel. My slacks creased perfectly. My boots shined like I still gave a damn. I didn't. But I did for him.
We moved without talking.
A sway to the left. A breath. A murmur of motion so slow it barely registered as dance. My hand found the curve of his waist and held. His rested loosely at my shoulder, thumb tracing an unconscious line over the seam of my coat. The world outside the tall windows of the restaurant was ice-bitten and silver, snow falling in soft spirals like feathers drifting toward sleep.
Reed tilted his head slightly to look up at me, and in the low golden light, his grey eyes caught flecks of something brighter—silver, almost. Like a storm threatening to clear.
He didn't smile. But he didn't have to.
This was the smile.
His being here. In my arms. Against every logic, every bruise, every warning.
I wanted to say something... anything. But my throat tightened around the words like they were fragile glass and I'd forgotten how to hold.
Because the last thing I remembered— The last real thing— Was the train station.
Cold steel benches. A woman zipping up a coffee cart. A flickering arrival board overhead, letters shifting with the disinterest of bureaucracy. I'd stood there for five hours, hand wrapped around a paper cup that had gone tepid in my grip. My coat still smelled faintly of bleach and blood, like the memory of a war I wasn't supposed to survive.
And he hadn't come.
I'd told myself he wouldn't. That he shouldn't. That this was the price for dragging someone like him into a world like mine.
"I wanna give,
I wanna give you all the strength within me,
To make a world,
To make a world that cannot fall apart.
And you can sit upon a throne,
Oh I'll give it all just for you alone,
For I can tame the wind and smooth the waters,"
I had waited. God, I had waited.
And he hadn't come.
Not then.
So what was this? A memory? A mercy? A lie I'd spun in desperation?
The music swelled slightly as if to answer, wrapping us tighter.
I clutched him just a bit closer, the weight of him anchoring me to something that might still be real. His fingers slipped slightly down my back, catching in the folds of my coat like he didn't want to let go either.
Then—gently, almost absentmindedly—his hand moved under the coat. A warm palm against the small of my back, pressing flat through the fabric of my shirt. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just there.
It was the kind of touch that didn't ask for permission because it already knew it belonged.
And in that moment, I felt it: the heat of him. The truth of him.
Not the man from the train station.
Not the ghost I was ready to mourn.
But Reed.
Here.
Holding on like he'd already made the choice.
Outside the windows, it had started snowing. Not a storm—just the kind of snowfall that looked like peace. Like forgiveness. Like an ending you could actually believe in.
Reed let out a breath. Soft. Barely there. But I felt it through two layers of fabric, and it broke something open in my chest.
I didn't care anymore if this was a hallucination. Or a dream. If it was—I hoped never to wake up. If it was real—then maybe… maybe I hadn't lost everything.
Maybe love didn't have to last fifty years to be worth something. Maybe it just had to survive tonight.
"If you just let me."
Let me have this. Let me keep him.
Just until the music ends.
-Reed.
The airport in Delémont was small. Smaller than I expected. Like... "was that it?" small.
I stepped off the plane like someone who'd just agreed to something in a fever dream, and now had to live with it because the refund window had closed. Literally. The glass doors behind me hissed shut with a finality I wasn't ready for.
The air was crisper than back home. Cleaner. It smelled like snow, pine, and organized infrastructure. There were signs everywhere, most of them in French, all of them trying way too hard to sound friendly. I followed one with a cartoon train on it that looked like it wanted to be my friend. It led me to baggage claim and then toward ground transport. Somewhere out there—hidden between sterile corridors and the soft drone of arrivals—was a train station.
And, allegedly, a man.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, shoved my hands deeper into my coat, and tried not to look like someone who just dramatically fled their life over a kiss and a forged bank statement.
This was stupid.
But I was already here.
I passed a small bakery stand where an old man was wrapping brioche in wax paper with the gentleness of a priest handling relics. There were fresh flowers in buckets beside the exit. The city wanted to be charming. I wanted to scream. Or nap. Or both.
My phone had no notifications. Rowan hadn't called. Hadn't texted. But then again, I was the one who told him to go alone, like I was in a telenovela.
The ticket was still folded in my coat pocket.
One-way to Delémont. No pressure, right?
Except… there was pressure.
Because the truth was—I'd been lying to myself.
I told myself I needed space. Told myself it wasn't safe. That I didn't trust him. That I wasn't ready to forgive.
But grief has this funny way of peeling everything down to the bone.
All the clever deflections, all the petty pride, all the rationalizations you wrap yourself in so you don't have to feel too much—they all fall apart the moment you're staring at a headstone you didn't want to exist.
And standing there at my grandmother's grave, wearing shoes that pinched and sunglasses that didn't hide anything—because really, who was I hiding from?—I realized something that felt embarrassingly simple.
It wasn't just that I had no one left. It was that I missed him.
I missed him in the kind of way that made me physically ache. The kind that crept in when I was brushing my teeth, or microwaving leftovers, or hearing some idiotic thing on the news that I knew he would've made a sarcastic monologue about. The kind of missing that didn't need a name—just an absence.
And I didn't miss him because I was lonely. I missed him because he saw me. Fully. For the first time.
And not despite the mess. Because of it.
I've always been sarcastic. Weaponized irony. Trademark defense mechanism. It's what I use when I'm scared, when I'm embarrassed, when I'm drowning. When I care too much. People don't get that. Most of the time they tell me to "chill," or that I'm "too much," or—my favorite—that I "shouldn't give things that much weight."
But some things deserve weight. Some things are heavy because they matter.
I learned to dull myself down into a joke, because at least jokes don't disappoint anyone. If you make people laugh first, they forget to expect anything of you. If you sound unserious, you can dodge the shame of never being taken seriously.
And then there was him.
Rowan.
Whatever name he decided on, whatever tailored persona he chose that day—he got it. He never told me I was too much. Never asked me to tone it down. He didn't flinch when I was being a sarcastic little shit, even when I was panicking inside. He bit back. He played along. Or he'd just look at me with that impossible face—amused, like he was watching a show he actually liked.
He matched me.
Like we were both actors in the same stupid play that no one else understood.
He didn't flinch when I turned everything into a punchline. He didn't try to correct it, fix it, or silence it. He bit back. He rolled his eyes. He smirked like he'd been waiting for someone to say something clever all day. Like I was refreshing to him.
He matched me.
And more importantly—he never made me feel small for the way I expressed my feelings. Whether it was sarcasm, bitterness, panic, or awe—he met me at eye level. He never dismissed me. He let me talk like that was enough.
And maybe that's when it started. But that's not where it ended.
Because Rowan wasn't just the man who understood me—he was the man who showed up.
Even when he was the one who put me in those impossible situations. Even when I told him to stay away. Even when it didn't make sense for him to care.
He showed up.
When I blacked out in that awful bar and some bartender texted him as a joke—he still came. When I spiraled. When I lashed out. When I said things I didn't mean. He still came.
He never said the words outright… not then. But he treated me with fondness. The kind that wasn't loud or romantic or choreographed. It was quiet. Subtle. Heavy.
Like warming up food I said I didn't want but still ate. Like holding me while pretending not to. Like calling it "safety protocol" when he waited outside my apartment for hours. Like catching my hand under the table and pretending it never happened.
And all of that—that care—it undid me.
Because I didn't need a man to rescue me. I just wanted one who didn't walk away.
So maybe I did have a choice. And I chose him.
Because even with all his secrets, he looked at me with something that felt a lot like home.
Because when I broke down, when I bled metaphor instead of logic—he listened.
And when I came undone in silence—he stayed. And Marlene —my grandmother— would've told me to go, because she believed in impossible love stories from watching all those damn Turkish dramas.
So here I was. Walking through a clean, over-lit airport in a country I'd never been to before, trying to find a man who wore sweaters like armor and kissed like he'd never been allowed to want something before.
I passed a woman handing out tourist maps and waved her off before she could try. I wasn't here to hike. Or eat fondue. I was here to make the worst decision of my adult life, thank you.
The doors ahead opened with a whoosh, and cold air bit my face like a playful slap.
I stepped outside.
The street was quiet. The snow on the ground wasn't dramatic—just enough to glitter under the streetlights and make the world feel too beautiful for someone like me to be standing in it, carrying his entire emotional baggage in a messenger bag from Zara.
Across the road, I spotted it: the station. The train station.
The place where, if I had timed it right—and if fate wasn't a complete bastard—he might still be waiting.
And if he wasn't?
Well. I guess I'd buy a hot chocolate, cry in the bathroom, and dramatically throw myself into a very neutral European lake. Or, more realistically, I'd find a hotel, hate myself in private, and tell Margo via encrypted email that I tried.
But my feet kept moving.
One step. Then another. Then the crossing signal chirped.
I was halfway across the street when my hands started sweating. I was definitely going to throw up. Cool. Sexy. Very mysterious of me.
This was either going to be a reunion or a ghost hunt. And I didn't know which I feared more.
But I walked faster anyway.
Because if there was even the slightest chance he was still there…
I had to know. I had to see him.
Even if all I could say was: Hi. I'm here. I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm here.
Even if he wasn't.
"How the hell am I supposed to find him?" I muttered, eyes flicking across the platform. "He's blond. He's tall. He's obscenely well-dressed. So is everyone else."
Because apparently in Switzerland, the national average cheekbone could cut a diamond.
It was a full crowd—commuters, travelers, parents wrangling snow-dusted toddlers, students dragging suitcases twice their size. A man in a camel coat walked by looking like he'd stepped out of a fragrance commercial. Behind him, a group of girls laughed like a cappella bells.
And me?
I was sweating under three layers and wondering if maybe I should've ironed my emotional baggage before bringing it through customs.
For a moment, I honestly thought this might be a cosmic joke. That I'd traveled all this way just to realize he left five minutes ago. Or worse—never showed up at all.
And really, how was I supposed to spot him?
Did I think he'd glow? Radiate suspicious activity? Float six inches above the marble tiles like some cursed Prada angel?
Because the truth was: Rowan blended when he wanted to. He could disappear into any crowd. That was his skill. That was his curse. That was part of why I wanted him so badly—I knew I'd never find anyone else quite like him.
But right now? I couldn't see him.
And the panic started to crawl up my spine in little prickling steps, fast and stupid.
I paced a little, chewing the inside of my cheek.
And I told myself—if he isn't here, it's okay. It doesn't mean he didn't want to be. It doesn't mean you were wrong to come. You came. That matters.
But still—
My eyes kept scanning.
Row by row. Face by face.
And then— I saw him.
Or at least—I thought it was him.
Sitting near the far bench, partially slouched, a black coat draped over long legs, shoulders hunched like someone trying not to look like they were hoping.
Head tilted just enough to stare into the crowd like it owed him something.
And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—I forgot how to breathe properly.
Because that was him.
And God help me— He looked like he was waiting for me.
-Rowan.
I'd waited too long.
The crowd had thinned. Another train had come and gone. The kiosk had switched out its croissants for sad-looking sandwiches wrapped in cling film. The station lights buzzed a little louder now, like they were tired of pretending to be soft.
I stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from my coat.
Enough. I had to go.
Maybe he made a different choice. Maybe he was safer for it. Maybe this was what I deserved.
I adjusted the lapel of my coat, shoulders heavy with the hours that had passed, and turned toward the exit.
And that's when it happened.
Yank.
A full-bodied, unapologetic pull on the collar of my coat—sharp enough to jolt my balance forward, like the universe had decided I needed to remember who the hell I was walking away from.
My breath caught. My spine went rigid.
And the world around me blurred out like someone had yanked the aperture wide open and focused only on me.
Flash.
A siren.
The cold grip of an officer's hand the first time I got caught stealing protein bars from a gas station in Nice. I was twelve. Hungry. Tired. The officer had knelt in front of me like I was a rabid dog they were deciding not to shoot.
Flash.
Emiliano. Voice low. Disgusted.
Warehouse floor. The crack of knuckles on cheekbone. Blood I barely noticed because my vision had gone red anyway. Emiliano's voice roaring my name as he yanked me off the man—his hand wrapped around my collarbone like restraint, like a leash. "That's enough, Rowan."
Flash.
Another night. Another moment.
Standing outside Reed's window, covered in bruises, trying to disappear. The next thing I knew he grabbed the back of my hoodie—clenched the fabric in his fist.
He caught me then too.
So now—
Here.
The same moment.
I didn't turn around.
I couldn't.
My heart was thudding against my ribs like it wanted out.
And then— his voice.
Worn, edged with breath, but unmistakably him.
"Found you."
-The End.-