It didn't begin with a confession.It began with a feeling.
A slow, quiet gravity pulling two people into each other's orbits. No declarations. No rules. Just an unspoken understanding-we belong here.
After their lakeside escape, something shifted between Jake and Hriva. The air between them buzzed with something alive, fragile, and sacred. It was the start of something they didn't have to define to believe in.
They began to see each other more-without planning, without overthinking. Jake would send a message saying, "You around?" and twenty minutes later, Hriva would be on his couch, tucked beneath his arm, watching a movie they barely paid attention to.
She started leaving her books on his shelves. He started forgetting his hoodies at her apartment. One day, Hriva found his guitar resting against her window like it had always belonged there.
And neither of them questioned it.
One evening, Jake stood in the tiny kitchen of his apartment, a determined look on his face as he stared down at a mess of ingredients that were supposed to become pasta.
"Need help?" Hriva asked, trying not to laugh as she watched him squint at the recipe.
"Nope," he replied. "I'm a man on a mission."
"A mission to burn down your kitchen?"
He gave her a look, flour on his cheek and sauce on his shirt, and Hriva couldn't help but laugh harder.
They ended up ordering pizza, sitting cross-legged on the floor as the city lights shimmered through the window behind them. They talked about nothing and everything-childhood memories, old dreams, silly regrets. Hriva told him about how she once wanted to be a painter. Jake confessed he used to write songs and never showed them to anyone.
"You should play me one," she said, her voice soft, genuine.
"Maybe someday," Jake replied, eyes flicking toward her. "If I ever grow the guts."
Hriva leaned her head against his shoulder. "You already have more courage than most people I know."
He didn't respond, but she could feel his heart beating a little faster.
They started taking late-night drives. No destination. Just music, open roads, and streetlights flickering past like stars. Hriva would play her favorite songs and Jake would hum along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Sometimes they'd stop at diners and share pancakes at 2 AM, sitting in red vinyl booths like they were the only two people in the world.
One night, as they watched the city skyline from the hood of his car, Jake said, "You ever think about how rare this is?"
"What?"
"This," he said, motioning between them. "This kind of connection. Like… we skipped the awkward stages and just knew each other."
Hriva looked at him, eyes glowing in the soft orange haze of the streetlights. "I've never had anything like this."
Jake didn't say anything. He just reached over and held her hand, their fingers intertwining like they'd done it a thousand times before.
They had their own little rituals-silent but sacred.
Jake always texted her a goodnight message, even when he was tired and half-asleep. Hriva brought him coffee whenever she visited his studio. He wrote her small notes on napkins and receipts, leaving them tucked in her bag or slipped between the pages of her books.
She called them treasures.
One night, he played her a song. One he had written years ago but never shared.
It was rough. Honest. The kind of song that sounded like a memory.
When he finished, Hriva had tears in her eyes.
"You should record that," she whispered.
Jake shrugged, unsure. "It's not perfect."
"But it's real," she said. "And that's what matters."
He looked at her then like she'd just said something sacred. And maybe she had.
On a rainy Saturday, they built a pillow fort in her living room. They lit candles, played old records, and got drunk on cheap wine and laughter. At some point, she fell asleep with her head on his chest, and Jake just stayed there-watching her breathe, brushing his fingers through her hair like she was something he never wanted to lose.
He didn't say it out loud.
Not yet.
But in that moment, he knew.
He was in love with her.
And deep down, something told him she was falling too.
Another night, Hriva took him to the rooftop of a building downtown. They brought a blanket, a thermos of tea, and laid beneath the stars.
"I used to come here when I felt lost," she said. "Like if I stared at the sky long enough, I'd remember who I was supposed to be."
Jake turned to her. "Do you still feel lost?"
She looked at him.
"No," she whispered. "Not when I'm with you."
He reached for her hand. "Then we'll stay here. As long as it takes."
She smiled and leaned into him, and together they watched the stars wheel across the sky like promises written in light.
Everything was beautiful.
Not perfect.
Not flawless.
But beautiful in the way real things are-messy, glowing, alive.
Jake and Hriva were writing their story in stolen moments, late-night conversations, accidental touches that lingered too long. And the world around them-the noise, the chaos, the past-seemed to pause, just to let them have this.
For now.