It had been three days since Nora met him in the garden.
Three days since he stepped out of her drawing and into her world.
They hadn't exchanged last names. No social media. No questions about families or futures. Only moments. Fleeting, precious, and quiet — like stolen seconds from time.
She didn't even know where he lived.
And somehow, that didn't scare her.
That evening, she found herself back in the garden. The fig tree had become their place. And he was already there, waiting — leaning casually against the trunk, eyes closed, listening to the breeze.
When he sensed her, he opened his eyes.
They didn't speak at first.
She walked toward him slowly, heart thudding, her thoughts louder than the world.
"You came," he said simply.
"I didn't want to," she admitted. "But I couldn't stay away."
He smiled softly.
"I get that."
The silence between them was different now. It wasn't awkward. It was full — heavy with things neither of them knew how to name.
She sat beside him. Not too close.
Not yet.
He looked down at her hands.
"You draw when you're scared," he said.
She blinked.
"How do you know?"
"I see it in your fingers. They twitch. Like they're searching for a pencil."
She laughed — surprised by how easily he read her.
"I've never had someone see me like that."
"You've never let anyone."
She looked at him, heart stinging a little.
And he was right.
He didn't reach for her. Didn't crowd her. He just sat there, presence steady, like a rhythm she could trust.
Then, very slowly, he turned his hand — palm up — and offered it without looking.
She stared at it.
Not because it was a dramatic gesture.
But because it wasn't.
No pressure. No rush.
Just a space. A silent invitation.
She placed her hand in his.
And in that moment… something shifted.
His fingers wrapped around hers with the gentlest warmth. Not fire. Not lightning.
Just… a peace.
She didn't know how long they sat like that.
But as the sky dimmed, and the wind carried the first hints of night, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
Just let her be.
And that was the moment it happened — not in words, or grand confessions.
But in stillness.
She let herself feel everything.
The steadiness of his breath.
The safety of his silence.
The tenderness in his stillness.
Her heart didn't race. It rested.
Not because it was boring.
But because it finally felt like home.