Hidden Flame

Tristan didn't slow until we reached the end of the hallway. He slid a keycard through the lock, and the door clicked open with a soft, satisfying sound. As it swung wide, a spacious studio apartment unfolded before me—a striking contrast to my cramped dorm room.

The place was expansive, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight streaming through towering floor-to-ceiling windows. The sleek, modern design exuded sophistication at every turn. In one corner, a bed sat neatly made, its crisp white linens contrasting with the dark wood frame. On the opposite side, dark leather couches formed a cozy living area, complementing the minimalist vibe. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and oversized island, looked straight out of a designer magazine, while a polished dining table nearby added an elegant touch.

"What am I doing here?" I demanded, crossing my arms and planting myself just inside the door, my frustration palpable.

Tristan didn't look surprised, just calm as ever. "I wanted to talk to you," he said simply, his voice steady. "Alone."

"About what?" I shot back, my eyes narrowing as I glared at him. "About how much you hate being nice to me?"

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as he paced in front of me. "You don't understand," he muttered, his steps measured but restless.

"Then explain it to me," I insisted, my voice rising, unable to keep the frustration from spilling over. "What don't I understand?"

He halted mid-step, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity I wasn't prepared for. For the first time, I saw a flicker of something unfamiliar—vulnerability. "I don't want to let myself get close to you," he admitted, his voice dropping, raw and almost tortured. "I can't."

"Why?" I pressed, stepping closer, the question burning on my lips. "Why can't you?"

He hesitated, his jaw clenching as he raked a hand through his hair again. "It's my family..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering downward as if the weight of his own words was too much. "It's my dad. He's complicated." His shoulders slumped, as if the weight of it all had him weary. "It just feels like it'd be better for you if I kept my distance."

I understood what it meant to have a complicated family, to live beneath the crushing weight of a father whose expectations shaped every decision. My own life had been molded by those same invisible hands, confined within the boundaries set by a man whose control permeated everything I did. My father wasn't evil, not in the way I suspected his was, but the suffocating presence of his influence was something I knew all too well.

He didn't realize it, but in that moment, I understood him more deeply than he could ever imagine, more than he would ever truly know.

"I understand," my voice was soft, the anger melting away. "More than you know."

His eyes trained on mine in a silent search for answers I would never be able to give. He rocked back and forth, like he was fighting against himself, a battle he lost as he sighed deeply, before taking steps to close the gap between us. One arm slid around my back while his other hand came to rest gently against my cheek, pulling me forward. My breath hitched, my lips parting in anticipation, my legs trembling slightly beneath me.

He leaned down, adjusting for the height difference between us, his warm, minty breath brushing against my skin. He cocked his head to the side, lining up our mouths. My heart had no mercy on me as it thudded against my chest walls like it was threatening to burst free. His broad shoulder muscles were twitching, as if he was holding himself back. The tension between us was almost unbearable and yet, I didn't dare move—I was frozen, caught in the pull of him, every fiber of my being daring him to close the last bit of distance.