There was a warmth that came with his presence now—a warmth I couldn't explain, couldn't label, and most days, I didn't dare trust.
But I felt it.
In the way he lingered near doorways before leaving for work.
In how he asked about my aunt without sounding rehearsed.
In how, when we sat in the same room, the silence between us no longer felt heavy. It felt full. Full of all the things we didn't know how to say.
And I was starting to smile more.
That was the dangerous part.
Because I wasn't supposed to be falling for him.
The morning after our long conversation—when he sat in my room and laughed for the first time—he didn't retreat the way I expected him to.
He stayed for breakfast again.
He didn't just sit across from me. He made coffee. Asked how I slept. Mentioned a book he saw me reading and asked if I liked the ending.
He didn't touch me.
But he was present.
And the part of me that had learned not to expect anything from anyone… didn't know what to do with that.
Later that week, Mira stopped me in the hallway with a concerned look.
"Ma'am… have you spoken to Mr. Calein today?"
"No," I replied, glancing at the clock. "Why?"
"There's a man at the front gate. He says he's your… boyfriend?"
The word hit like a hammer to the ribs.
Boyfriend?
I hadn't heard that word in months.
I hadn't thought of Evan in weeks.
When I reached the gate, he was leaning against a pillar like he belonged there.
Evan.
Messy hair. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. That same casual arrogance I once thought was confidence.
He grinned when he saw me.
"Lara."
My chest tightened.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I heard you got married," he said, pushing off the pillar. "Didn't believe it. Figured it was just your aunt exaggerating."
I folded my arms. "She wasn't."
"I can see that now," he replied, eyeing the estate behind me. "You really landed it, huh? A house like this… a guy like him."
I felt my jaw tighten. "Don't do that."
He raised a hand. "Alright, alright. Not here to judge. Just came to talk."
"So talk."
He paused, then looked at me seriously for the first time. "Do you miss me?"
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer. "You disappeared, Lara. One day we're together, and the next you're off married to some billionaire I've never even heard of. Was it really that easy to walk away?"
My heart thudded once. Hard.
I wanted to yell at him. To ask him where he was the day I needed someone. To remind him of all the nights he cancelled on me, the excuses, the way I always came second.
But I didn't.
Instead, I said calmly, "You never asked me to stay."
He looked away.
"Was he better?" Evan asked.
"No," I said honestly. "He was colder. More distant. But he never lied. And he never asked for pieces of me he wasn't willing to give back."
Evan looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn't.
"Take care, Lara," he said quietly.
And just like that, he was gone.
I didn't tell Richard.
Not that night. Not the next morning. Not because I was hiding it—but because I didn't know how to explain why it still bothered me.
It wasn't Evan.
It was the reminder that I had let myself be loved halfway for so long… I didn't recognize the real thing even when it stood right in front of me.
Two days later, Richard noticed the shift in my mood.
We were in the study, seated across from each other. I was reading the same sentence for the third time. He looked up from his tablet and said, "You're distracted."
I glanced up. "Sorry."
He closed the device. "What happened?"
And somehow, it spilled out.
Evan. The gate. What he said.
I didn't say it to get a reaction.
But when I finished, Richard's expression was unreadable.
"Did you love him?" he asked quietly.
I paused. "I wanted to."
"Did he love you?"
"No," I said. "Not enough. Not the way I needed."
He nodded once. "Then I'm glad he's gone."
I blinked at him. "You are?"
Richard's gaze didn't soften, but his voice did.
"I don't like people who waste good things."
And I didn't know what to say to that.
Because somewhere inside me, a piece that had long been numb… stirred.
That night, I found myself standing outside his door.
Not to ask for anything. Not even to talk.
I just stood there.
And before I could talk myself out of it, I knocked.
He opened the door in his usual crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled like he'd been working late.
He didn't ask why I was there.
He just stepped aside and let me in.
We didn't say much. But I sat on the edge of his couch while he worked at the desk. Occasionally, he'd look up and offer me a small nod. And that was enough.
Because sometimes love doesn't come in declarations.
Sometimes it comes in permission.
To stay.
To be.
To exist in someone's space without having to earn it.