The night was warm. The kind of warmth that wrapped around the skin, not smothering, but comforting—like a worn-out sweater that had somehow survived one too many winters. Arthur stood on the small balcony just outside their apartment, watching the city lights flicker like stars that got stuck too close to the ground.
Inside, Elsa sat on the floor by the radio, her hands resting on her lap, head tilted slightly to catch the music better. The soft notes of a jazz ballad swirled through the air. It was quiet. Familiar. The kind of evening that felt like a memory while it was still happening.
"You know what I miss?" Arthur said suddenly, his voice barely louder than the music.
Elsa turned toward him. "Tell me."
"Nothing," he said with a short laugh. "That's the thing. I don't think I ever had anything worth missing until now."
She didn't reply, but he saw her smile. Not with her mouth, but with the way her shoulders relaxed and her fingers curled softly on her knees.
He stepped back inside and sat beside her. The floor was hard, but her presence made it soft somehow.
"I was thinking," she said after a moment, "about colors."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Colors?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "I don't know what they look like. But I've always imagined emotions had colors. Like... anger is red. Everyone says that. But I think it's darker than that. Like brown-red. Heavy. And sadness—people say it's blue, but to me it feels more like gray. Not cold... just faded."
"What about happiness?"
She tilted her head. "I think it's gold. Warm and buzzing."
He nodded. "And what do you think this is right now?"
She smiled. "Orange. Sunset orange."
Arthur didn't say anything. He just looked at her. The way she could paint a world without ever seeing it made him feel something he wasn't sure he deserved.
Elsa shifted slightly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Why haven't you tried to kiss me?"
His heart stopped. Like fully stopped. He felt the breath catch in his lungs.
"I—" he began, but the words scattered like dust.
She turned her head toward him. "It's okay. I just wondered."
Arthur struggled. "I didn't want to... I mean, I didn't think you'd want that. I thought... maybe it would make things weird."
"Would it?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Elsa's voice was quiet. "I trust you."
That silenced him.
She turned fully toward him then, reaching forward gently. Her fingers found his hand, then his cheek. She touched his jaw like she was trying to memorize it.
"You're warm," she whispered. "And always a little nervous."
He chuckled, shaky. "You can feel that?"
"I can hear it in your voice. The way you breathe. The way you stop talking when you're afraid I might not feel the same."
Arthur exhaled slowly. "Do you?"
Her lips curled. "I think I have for a while now."
The silence was no longer empty. It was full of tension. Full of trembling hope.
He leaned forward slowly—so slowly it felt like a question written with his body.
And she answered.
Their lips met gently. Not like fire. Not like movies. But like a whisper. Like the first page of something sacred. Her hand on his cheek, his heart pounding so loud he was sure she could feel it through the floor.
When they pulled apart, neither of them spoke.
The music from the radio still played, now some soft instrumental melody that seemed to time itself perfectly to their heartbeat.
Elsa leaned her head on his shoulder.
Arthur stared at the wall, blinking slowly.
"I didn't think someone like you would ever want someone like me," he said eventually.
She gave a small hum. "That's the thing, Arthur. I don't want 'someone like you.' I want you."
He swallowed. "What if I mess it up? What if I ruin everything?"
"You won't," she said simply.
"But what if I do?"
She pulled away gently and turned her face to him. "Then we fix it. Together."
It wasn't a grand declaration or some dramatic vow. It was simple. Honest. And it cut deeper than anything else.
They sat in silence again. This time with their fingers tangled loosely between them.
And in that quiet, Arthur's doubts didn't vanish. But they softened.
Because love—real love—didn't need perfection.
It just needed permission.
And tonight, they both gave it.