There's a silence I've grown used to in this house—one that doesn't stretch awkwardly between us anymore. It lingers like background music now, wrapping around the clinks of teacups, the rustle of pages, the distant sound of footsteps in the hallway.
And somehow, this silence makes me feel more seen than all the words Evan ever said.
I woke up with a blanket folded neatly at the edge of my bed, the same one I'd wrapped around myself when I sat in Richard's room two nights ago. I must've carried it back without thinking. It still held a faint trace of his scent—clean linen and something crisp like cedarwood.
It was strange how comforting that smell had become.
The room was warm with sunlight now, and I watched dust float gently in the air. I didn't want to get up just yet. Something about the moment felt too still, too sacred. But my phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging me back.
A text from Mira:
"Mr. Calein is having breakfast in the conservatory. Shall I bring yours there as well?"
I hesitated only for a second before replying:
"Yes, please."
He was already there when I arrived. The conservatory was always quiet in the mornings, filled with soft light and the distant hum of the fountain outside. He sat at the far end of the table, flipping through a file, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows like usual.
"Good morning," I said, careful not to sound uncertain.
He looked up. "Morning."
There was a pause—not tense, but thoughtful—before he gestured toward the seat beside him.
"Sit."
I took the seat without argument. Mira arrived with a tray—tea, toast, scrambled eggs. The usual. Richard closed his file and leaned back slightly.
"You said once you liked books," he said.
I nodded, surprised he remembered.
"What kind?"
"Literature, mostly. Classic fiction. I always liked stories that felt... unfinished."
"Unfinished?"
"They leave something behind," I said. "Like they trust the reader to carry the story forward. It felt honest. Real life rarely wraps itself neatly."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, "Did you ever want to write one?"
I smiled. "I wanted to teach. University-level literature. Talk about stories all day. But—" I paused, glancing down at my tea. "Life doesn't always ask what we want, does it?"
"No," he murmured. "It doesn't."
His voice wasn't distant. It was... understanding.
For a second, we both stared ahead in silence. Then we reached for the sugar bowl at the same time.
Our hands touched.
Not in some grand, electric way. It was soft. Brief. Skin brushing skin. But my fingers lingered for half a second longer than they should have. His didn't flinch. They just rested against mine, warm and steady.
Then, as if realizing it at the same time, we both pulled back.
He cleared his throat. "Apologies."
"No need," I said, maybe a little too quickly.
I didn't know how to look at him after that. Not directly.
Later that morning, I received a call from the hospital.
My aunt was being discharged.
"Finally," the nurse said, exasperated. "She's been insistent about going home. Says she's perfectly fine and doesn't need anyone hovering."
That sounded like her.
I arranged for a driver and called ahead to prepare the guest room she liked, even though I already knew what her first complaint would be.
When I got there, she looked more annoyed than relieved.
"Took you long enough," she said before I could even greet her.
I opened my mouth to explain the delay, but closed it again. What would be the point?
"Everything's paid for," I said.
She snorted. "I'm sure your new husband had something to do with that. Must be nice."
I didn't reply.
As we drove back, she chattered about things she didn't like in the hospital, the food, the nurse's attitude, the bland curtains. Not once did she ask how I was. Whether I was eating well. Whether I was happy.
I didn't expect her to. But it still hurt that she didn't.
By the time I returned to the house, the sun had begun to dip.
I dropped my bag in my room, changed out of my stiff hospital-visit clothes, and wandered outside, hoping the air might ease the tightness behind my ribs.
The garden was cooler now, shaded and quiet. I took the path along the fountain, letting my fingers trail across the stone.
"Long day?"
I turned to see Richard standing a few feet away.
He wasn't in his usual suit. Just a button-down and dark slacks. No tie. His hair looked softer in the fading light.
"You could say that," I said, offering a small smile.
He walked with me, slowly, matching my pace. We didn't speak for a while. Just the sound of gravel under our shoes and the occasional chirp of a bird settling in for the night.
"She didn't say thank you," I murmured.
He looked at me.
"My aunt," I explained. "She didn't even ask how I was. Just assumed everything would be handled. Like always."
"That's her loss," he said quietly.
"You don't know her."
"I don't need to."
He stopped walking then, turning to face me fully.
"You do everything for people who don't deserve it. Not because you want praise—but because you can't not care. That's not weakness, Lara."
I stared at him. His voice was so certain. As if he was speaking not just about me—but maybe about someone from his past, too.
He looked down for a moment, then back at me.
"I don't like wasting things that matter."
The words landed heavy.
He didn't touch me. Didn't step closer.
But my heart raced anyway.
I opened my mouth. Part of me wanted to say something. That I think about him more than I should. That I see the way he tries. That he's more human than anyone gives him credit for.
But I couldn't.
The words tangled up behind my teeth.
So I said nothing.
And we stood there, not touching, not speaking—but somehow closer than ever.
That night, I wrote in my journal for
the first time in months.
He doesn't say the right things. He doesn't know how.
But he listens. And he stays.
And maybe that's enough—for now.
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, but if I get to experience this feeling even for a day more, it's worth it.