THE MIDNIGHT MOMENT

The rain had stopped, but the silence it left behind was almost louder.

Sophie lay beneath her blanket, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as the pale light of the moon traced soft lines across her walls. She turned her head to the side and watched shadows from the tree branches outside dance gently on the windowpane. It was well past midnight, and the world outside had finally quieted down. No voices, no cars—just the occasional drip of water from the rooftop.

But inside her chest, everything felt restless.

James was in the guest room down the hall.

That thought alone had her emotions tangling and twisting in impossible ways. She couldn't stop replaying their kiss earlier that evening—the way his lips had pressed against hers, the heat of his breath, the slow, aching pull in her stomach that hadn't stopped since.

It wasn't just about the kiss. It was about everything he had said to her before and after. The way he looked at her like she was something he didn't believe he deserved. Like she mattered more than time.

Is he awake?

Is he thinking about me too?

Sophie sat up slowly, her blanket pooling around her waist. Her heart pounded with nerves, with uncertainty. She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a soft sigh. The part of her that wanted to be rational told her to stay in bed, to sleep, to let things be.

But her heart had a mind of its own.

She stood, quietly slipping her feet into soft socks, and padded across the floor. Her fingers hesitated over the door handle, but only for a second. She opened it with a soft creak, peeking out into the dark hallway.

Everything was still.

She tiptoed down the corridor, careful to avoid the loose floorboard just outside the kitchen. Her aunt's bedroom door was closed. The guest room's door—James's door—stood silent. The light beneath it had gone out.

Sophie reached it and paused.

What was she even going to say?

Hi, I can't sleep because you're here?

She let out a shaky breath. Her hand rose to knock—then hesitated. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe she'd just embarrass herself.

But before she could decide, the door creaked open.

She gasped softly.

A hand reached out and pulled her in, careful but sure.

"Sophie," James said, closing the door gently behind her.

"You're still awake," she whispered, voice uncertain, her pulse racing.

James nodded. He was standing close, dressed in a plain dark shirt and loose pajama pants that looked borrowed—probably from her aunt's late husband, just as she'd guessed. The light in the room came from a small lamp on the dresser, warm and dim. It bathed the room in a gold glow that made everything feel dreamlike.

James didn't speak right away. He looked at her—really looked at her—and stepped closer.

"I was thinking about you," he admitted.

Sophie swallowed. "I was thinking about you too."

There was a beat of silence.

Then he gently placed his hands on her waist.

Her breath hitched, and her hands found his shoulders. She moved them slowly, around his neck, fingers tangling lightly in the ends of his still-damp hair.

"Do you miss me?" he asked, voice a low murmur against the quiet.

Sophie didn't say anything. Instead, she leaned into him just a little more.

"Hmmm," she hummed, her eyes fluttering shut.

James didn't hesitate. He leaned in slowly, his eyes asking the question his mouth no longer needed to voice. Sophie didn't pull away.

Their lips met again.

It was different this time—less desperate than the one in the rain, but just as full of longing. It was slower, deeper, exploring more than demanding. Sophie clung to his shoulders, her whole body warming despite the chill from her skin. James's hand moved up her back, not possessive, just reassuring.

She pressed herself against him, her fingers tightening slightly in his hair. His lips moved against hers with a kind of reverence, like he'd been waiting years, lifetimes even, to be allowed to feel this close to someone again.

The kiss grew hungrier, then softened again. James kissed the edge of her mouth, her jawline, the corner of her neck—never rushing, never asking for more than she was ready to give.

But even with all the heat and closeness, he didn't cross any boundaries.

He knew where to stop.

Breathing heavily, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. His hands stayed gently on her waist. Her own arms were still draped around his neck.

They stood like that for what felt like a long time. Silent. A moment stitched together with tension and tenderness.

"I'm scared," Sophie admitted, finally.

"Of me?" he asked.

"Of everything. Of how much I feel."

"I know," he whispered. "Me too."

Her eyes fluttered shut. She wanted to hold onto the moment. To press it into memory like a flower in a book.

When she opened her eyes, he was still watching her.

"I should go," she whispered, even though she didn't mean it.

James stepped back slowly, his hands leaving her body with the same gentleness they came with. "You don't have to."

Sophie gave him a small smile—soft, tired, and full of things she couldn't say yet.

She turned and walked to the door. Before opening it, she looked back at him one last time.

"Goodnight, James."

"Goodnight, Sophie."

She returned to her room, heart drumming so loudly it was a wonder her aunt hadn't woken up.

That night, sleep came slowly.

But her dreams were quiet.

And warm.

---