For you, I'd stand still

Nine O'Clock

The streets of Vienna are quieter now, the city draped in the soft, golden glow of streetlamps. Mateo walks beside me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his breath clouding the cold air. The clocktower above us chimes nine o'clock, its deep, resonant tones rippling through the stillness.

"Alright," Mateo says, breaking the silence. "You've been mysterious all day, and now you've dragged me halfway across the city. I'm starting to think you're leading me to some secret underground lair. If you are, I'm in for the fun, but just tell me."

I glance at him, unable to suppress a laugh. "Would that scare you?"

"Not unless there are bats, because I'm not great with bast," he says, grinning very broadely all of the sudden.

"What?"

He shakes his head, chuckling. I wish I could record that sound. "Nothing, it's just...you don't laugh very often. So, every time you do, I can't help but feel like I've achieved the greatest victory in human history. It's beautiful. You are beautiful."

I open and close my mouth like a damn fish. This man never ceases to render me completely and utterly perplexed. And he can make me blush so easily, it's terrifying. He makes me feel lighter, the weight of my secrets momentarily forgotten.

But the laughter fades quickly as the reality of what I'm about to do sinks in. My hands are buried in my coat pockets, clenched tightly around the small object I've been holding all evening. I glance at Mateo out of the corner of my eye, his expression open and unguarded. It makes me want to stop walking, to turn around and retreat back into the safety of the life I've built around silence and half-truths.

But I can't. Not anymore.

"We're almost there," I say, my voice quieter now.

Mateo doesn't press me. He never does. He just nods and falls back into step beside me, his calm presence grounding me even as my thoughts spiral.

We turn a corner, and I lead him into a narrow alley. At the end, there's an iron gate, rusted and barely holding on to its hinges. Beyond it, the outlines of a small, abandoned building loom in the dim light.

Mateo raises an eyebrow. "You weren't kidding about the lair."

"It's not what it looks like," I say quickly, giggling and fumbling with the gate's latch. "Well, maybe it is, but...just trust me."

"You know I do," he says and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks again.

The gate creaks as I push it open, and Mateo follows me through without a word. Inside, the air feels colder, heavier, like the weight of the past lingers in every corner.

"This used to be an art studio," I say, my voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "Years ago. Before..." I trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Mateo looks around, his gaze curious but not judgmental. "Before what?"

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. Instead of answering, I pull the small object from my pocket and hold it out to him.

It's a key, old and tarnished, its edges worn smooth from years of use.

"This was my parents'," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "My father was an artist. He used to bring my mother and me here when I was little, before everything fell apart."

Mateo takes the key carefully, his fingers brushing against mine. "Why are we here, Rose?"

I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Because I need you to see this part of me," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Because I've spent so long running from it, from everything this place represents. But I can't anymore. Not if I want to move forward. Not if I want us to mean something."

Mateo looks at me for a long moment, his expression softening. "Okay," he says simply. "Show me."

I nod, my throat tight, and step further into the space. The floor is littered with dust and broken pieces of old wood, but the walls are still alive with faint traces of colour: faded murals, half-finished sketches, and splashes of paint that seem to defy time.

"This is where my parents had their first date, and where my father taught me to paint," I say, running my fingers along the edge of a paint-smeared table. "I can hear them laugh like when they were teenagers. My mother always said art was my father's way to tell the truth when words weren't enough. But after they died..." My voice falters, and I take a deep breath. "I stopped coming here. I stopped painting. It felt like if I kept going, I'd lose the last piece of them I had left. I simply left, not turning back, not even saying goodbye to my friends back then."

Mateo doesn't interrupt. He just watches me, his presence steady and grounding.

I gesture toward a large, covered canvas propped against the far wall. "That's the last thing I ever painted. Before I walked away from all of this; from my past life."

He moves closer, his gaze flicking between me and the canvas. "May I?"

I nod, my stomach twisting as he reaches out to lift the cloth. I have never shown this to anybody.

Beneath it is a painting - a chaotic mix of reds, oranges, transitioning greens, blues, violets, and blacks, the colours swirling together in violent, fiery motion. In the centre, a lone figure stands, barely visible against the storm of colour. It's raw, unpolished, and brimming with emotion.

Mateo studies it in silence, his expression unreadable. I brace myself for the inevitable questions I'm sure will follow. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost reverent.

"It's beautiful," he says.

I blink, caught off guard. "You...you think so?"

He nods, his gaze still fixed on the painting. "It's honest. Powerful. Unfaltering. Mysterious. Profoundly gorgeous. It's you."

His words hit me harder than I expect, and I look away, my hands trembling. "I painted it the night my parents died," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't...I didn't know how to handle it. So I poured everything I felt onto the canvas. I locked it away and pretended it didn't exist. Then And then...I left."

Mateo turns to me, his eyes searching mine. "You don't have to do that anymore. You don't have to hide."

The weight of his words settles over me, and for a moment, I can't speak. I want to believe him, to let myself be seen, but the fear is still there, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.

"I'm scared," I admit finally, my voice cracking. "What if I let you in, and it's too much? What if I ruin everything? What if you won't understand? What if I break not only you, but us in the process?"

Mateo steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup my cheek. "Rose," he says softly, his thumb brushing against my skin. "You're not going to ruin anything. You're not going to break, nor are you going to break me. And you're not too much. You're just...you. And that's enough for me. I don't need to understand more. You are enough."

The warmth of his touch melts the glaciers around my heart, and for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.

The clocktower chimes again, its steady rhythm echoing through the empty studio. Nine thirty. The sound pulls me back to the present, and I realise something else: I don't want to run anymore. I don't want to move anymore.

"I'm not good at this," I say, my voice trembling. "Letting people in. Letting you in. But I want to try. I want to stop being afraid."

Mateo smiles, his hand still resting against my cheek. "Then let's try. Together."

And then he kisses me. Just like in those movies he told me about.