The silence didn't break — it bent. Pulled taut like a wire, humming with everything unsaid. He stood against the wall, still watching me, eyes steady beneath the tilt of his brow. A single finger tapped slowly against his thigh. Rhythm without hurry. Like he had all day.

And I hadn't moved.

A long moment passed — quiet, wind stirring dust around the curb, the distant cough of an engine somewhere down the block. But between us, nothing shifted. Just the space. Just the breath.

Then finally — his mouth parted, and his voice came low. Quiet. Unforced.

"You knew I wasn't gonna stop."

That was all.

No question. No apology. No request. Just fact. Soft-spoken and steady, like he was saying something I'd already admitted to myself.

The words didn't demand a reaction. They just hung there, filling the space where anything else might have tried to soften the edges. But there was no softening here.

His eyes didn't leave mine.

And still — I didn't look away.