The days that followed felt gentler somehow.
Maybe it was the steady rhythm of messages. Not constant, not enough to think anything was going on — just enough to make the days feel a little less empty.
They talked about ordinary things at first. How the new company he was with was smaller, but had a better coffee machine. How she'd finally managed to fix the printer that had plagued them for months. How the children were obsessed with pancakes again.
It was all so normal — and yet every word seemed charged with something more.
Late at night, she'd catch herself smiling at the glow of her phone, rereading a message until she knew it by heart. She'd put the phone down, then pick it up again, afraid to let the quiet settle too long between them.
By Thursday evening, she was tired of skirting around what she really wanted.
She typed, deleted, typed again. Then finally sent it before she could lose her nerve.
Would you like to have lunch sometime? I mean, if you want to. If you have time.
The moment it sent, she covered her face with both hands and groaned.
Too much? Too soon?
She stared at the screen, willing it to light up. After a minute that felt like an hour, it finally did.
I'd like that. Very much.
Her pulse quickened.
She set the phone down and laughed softly, a quiet sound in the empty kitchen.
When her message arrived, he read it three times before he let himself believe it was real.
Lunch. With Isabelle.
For days, he'd been living half a life — work, gym, sleep, repeat — all of it colourless, muted. But now something sharp and bright cut through the fog.
He stared out the window, the city stretched beneath a thin veil of spring drizzle. His reflection looked almost alive again.
He replied before he could think too hard about it.
I'd like that. Very much.
After sending it, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The thought of seeing her again — properly, without pretending, without lines between them — made his chest tighten.
He didn't know what he'd say. He only knew he wanted to see her face again.
They met at a quiet little restaurant near St. Katherine Docks — the kind of place that looked ordinary from the outside, but smelled of warm bread and herbs once you stepped through the door.
He was already there when she arrived, seated near the window. The moment their eyes met, something inside her settled and unraveled all at once.
He looked different — sharper somehow. His hair was neater, his beard trimmed, but the faint tiredness in his eyes remained. It softened when he saw her.
"Isabelle."
"Robert."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she smiled, and he exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for weeks.
Lunch was easy, almost disarmingly so. They talked and laughed, the conversation flowing like it used to, only gentler, deeper.
He asked about the children; she asked about his new team. He told her about a disastrous client pitch; she confessed she'd burned an entire tray of lasagne last week because she'd been distracted by a film.
Time folded in on itself.
When they finally realised the lunch rush had long passed and the waitstaff were quietly resetting tables, Robert suggested a walk along the river.
The air smelled faintly of the river, cool as it drifted between them. The city went on around them in its quiet rhythm, but it felt far away, blurred and gentle.
They crossed toward Tower Bridge, the sky a pale wash of silver and blue. She walked beside him, her coat fluttering slightly in the breeze, her hair catching the light.
He'd forgotten what it felt like to be at ease. To walk without an agenda, to feel the presence of someone beside him without needing to fill every silence.
They paused halfway across the bridge, leaning on the railing. The Thames flowed below, dark and restless.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she turned to him, nervousness flickering in her eyes.
"Robert," she said softly, "can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the cold metal of the railing. "Now that you don't work at Hale anymore… I can be honest."
He felt his pulse quicken. "Honest?"
She nodded, taking a breath. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about that kiss."
The words hung between them, fragile and trembling.
He stared at her — the pink rising in her cheeks, the slight tremor in her hands, the sheer courage it must have taken to say that.
"I know it shouldn't have happened," she continued quickly, her voice shaking. "And maybe it complicated everything. But I can't pretend it didn't mean something to me. I tried to ignore it. I even tried to… move on." She laughed softly, self-conscious. "But I can't. Being without you hurts too much."
Her eyes lifted to his then, bright with emotion. "So I thought I should tell you. Before I lose the chance."
He couldn't breathe.
For weeks, he'd been trying to silence the part of him that ached for her — telling himself it was better this way, that she was safer without him. But now, hearing her voice tremble as she confessed the same thing he'd buried deep inside, the dam simply broke.
"Isabelle," he said, his voice rough, "you don't understand."
She frowned slightly, hurt flickering across her face, but he shook his head quickly.
"I'm damaged," he said quietly. "I'm not built for relationships. I ruin things. I've hurt people."
He looked down at his hands, knuckles white against the railing. "Every time I've tried… it ends the same way. I can't do that to you."
She watched him silently, her expression softening.
"But," he went on, his voice unsteady, "not being with you is… it's killing me."
Her breath caught.
"You're the only thing that makes any of this —" he gestured vaguely at the city around them "— feel bearable. Your smile, your eyes, the way you talk about your kids like they're the best part of your world. It's… it's what makes the days less empty."
She didn't move closer, not yet. She just stood there, letting the words find him.
"I'm not asking for anything," he finished. "I just needed you to know."
She took a slow step toward him.
"You think you're damaged," she whispered, "but all I see is someone who feels deeply and tries too hard not to."
The river below murmured, the air filled with the soft rush of traffic.
She lifted a hand, hesitated — then touched his cheek, her fingers light against his skin.
"Maybe we're both a little broken," she said. "But maybe we can stop pretending it's a bad thing."
He didn't answer. He just looked at her — really looked at her — with that same mixture of wonder and pain that had captured him months ago.
Then he reached up, his hand closing over hers, holding it against his face.
"Isabelle," he murmured, his voice breaking slightly on her name.
She smiled, nervous, aching and alive all at once. "You don't have to say anything."
But he did.
He took a step closer, his voice barely more than a breath. "I think I've been saying it without words for a long time."
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't rushed or desperate like in the cab. It was slow, deliberate — a confession, a surrender. The kind of kiss that made the world fade until nothing was left but the warmth between them and the soft sound of rain dripping around them.
She felt his hand slip into her hair, his breath tremble against her skin. She pressed closer, her heart beating so fast it almost hurt.
When they finally broke apart, the city lights shimmered across the river, and neither spoke.
He rested his forehead against hers. "Tell me this isn't a mistake," he whispered.
She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "If it is, it's the best one I've ever made."
They stood like that for a long moment — two figures suspended above the restless city, the world moving quietly around them while something entirely new took root in the space between their hearts.
The rain continued to fall, gentle, forgiving.