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The scent of lilies clung to the air, a ghost of the wedding that had concluded less than an hour ago. In the plush, silent backseat of the town car, it was the only tangible thing bridging the chasm between them. Cora Ashworth—now Cora Gray—sat beside Ronan, her body angled towards the window but her entire being focused on the man next to her.
Her fingers worried a small, damp patch on the elegant fabric of her dress, her knuckles white. The city streets blurred into streaks of light and shadow, but she wasn't seeing them. Her mind was a reel of memories, all featuring him: Ronan Gray, her quiet classmate, the boy she'd watched for two semesters from the safe distance of a library aisle or a lecture hall row. And now, he was her husband.
The surreality of it sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her, cold and sharp, immediately followed by a warmer, more terrifying flush of joy. He is here. I am here. This is real.
She stole a glance at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. What was he thinking? Was he as adrift as she was? Was he angry? Resigned? Her chest tightened with a desperate need to know, to find a crack in the calm facade he always presented to the world.
Swallowing hard, she fumbled in the small clutch on her lap. Her movements were jerky, her hands betraying the fear that churned within her. She retrieved her phone, the screen cool and familiar against her trembling fingers. Opening her notepad app, she hesitated, the blank digital page a daunting precipice. This was it. The first words.
She typed slowly, each tap of her thumb a deliberate effort against the weight of everything unspoken between them.
Taking a shallow breath, she turned the phone towards him.
Her large, expressive brown eyes were wide and vulnerable, filled with a thousand unsaid words and a silent, pleading question. On the screen, illuminated brightly against the dimming light outside, were the words:
Is it... very far to our new home?
She watched his face, her breath caught in her throat. She bit her lower lip, the gesture almost imperceptible. Please, her mind whispered, a frantic prayer. Please, just say something kind. Anything. I'm so scared... but I'm also... I'm your wife now. I want this to be real. Her heart was a frantic bird beating against the cage of her ribs, a terrifying, hopeful flutter.
Ronan turned from the window, his gaze shifting from the passing cityscape to the phone screen held in her trembling hand. He read the words, his expression unreadable for a heart-stopping moment. Then, his eyes, a calm, steady grey she had always found captivating, met hers.
"Not far," he said, his voice quieter than she remembered from the few times she'd heard it in class. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold either. It was just… a fact. "Maybe ten more minutes."
A wave of relief so potent it left her dizzy washed over her. He had answered. He hadn't ignored her. He had looked at her. Cora's shoulders, which had been tensed somewhere around her ears, dropped a fraction. She gave a small, quick nod, pulling the phone back to her chest.
Her mind raced, desperate to hold onto this fragile thread of communication. She couldn't let the silence swallow them again. Not now. Not when he had just acknowledged her existence in this new, shared space.
Her fingers flew over the screen again, more assured this time. She held it out once more, her eyes searching his.
Thank you.
The ceremony was… beautiful.
It was a safe thing to say. A polite thing. But for Cora, it was also true. The simplicity of it, the stark reality of standing beside him, had been the most beautiful, terrifying moment of her life. She watched him, studying the line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. She was cataloging him, this boy she loved, now her husband. Her heart ached with the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of it all. She was here. She was with him. Now, she just had to make him see her.
Ronan's gaze lingered on the screen for a moment longer before returning to her face. A flicker of something unreadable—surprise, perhaps, or simple acknowledgment—passed through his grey eyes.
"It was efficient," he replied, his tone still neutral, but his attention fully on her now. It was a statement that could have felt like a dismissal, but the fact that he was engaging, that he was looking at her as he said it, made it feel like a conversation.
Cora's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. Efficient. It was such a Ronan thing to say. Practical. Unromantic. And yet, she found it endearing because it was so uniquely him. She nodded again, a little more firmly this time.
The car turned a corner, moving from the bustling main avenue into a quieter, tree-lined street. The change in scenery felt significant, a visual representation of the transition they were undergoing. Her heart began to pound again, but for a different reason now. Anticipation. This was it. Their home.
She looked down at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. The urge to ask a dozen questions bubbled up inside her. What is it like? Is there a garden? Which room will be mine? Ours? But she restrained herself, not wanting to overwhelm him. Instead, she typed a single, simple line, a offering of peace, of willingness. She turned the screen to him, her expression open and hopeful.
I am looking forward to seeing it.
The car slowed, then came to a smooth stop. Ronan didn't need to look out the window. "We're here," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine.
Cora's head snapped towards the window, her breath catching. There it was. Not a sprawling mansion as her family's wealth might have suggested, but a sleek, modern townhouse nestled between two similar properties. It was built of pale stone and dark wood, with a clean, geometric lines and a single, beautifully crafted oak door. It looked... quiet. Private. A place for two people to exist without the weight of prying eyes. A fragile hope bloomed in her chest.
She watched as Ronan exited the car without another word, his movements economical and sure. He didn't look back, simply rounding the vehicle to retrieve their small, shared set of luggage from the trunk. It was a stark reminder of the practical, unemotional nature of their union.
For a moment, Cora remained frozen in her seat, the reality of the moment pressing down on her. This was the threshold. Once she crossed it, there was no going back. Her fingers tightened around her phone. Then, with a surge of that determined resilience that lay beneath her anxiety, she pushed the door open and stepped out.
The evening air was cool on her skin. She stood on the pavement, looking up at the townhouse, then at Ronan's back as he carried the bags towards the front door. This was it. Her new life.
Before he could unlock the door, she quickly typed one more message and took a hurried step forward, her low heels clicking softly on the stone path. She didn't hold the phone up for him to read from a distance. Instead, she moved close enough that he could feel her presence, close enough to catch the faint, lingering scent of her perfume—and the nervous energy radiating from her.
She extended her arm, offering the screen to him like a key.
Our home.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a claim, and a silent, fervent prayer all at once. Her eyes, wide and shimmering in the dim porch light, held his, daring him to contradict her, begging him to confirm it.
Ronan paused, his key halfway to the lock. He turned his head, his grey eyes dropping to the phone screen she held out, then lifting to meet her gaze. The porch light cast soft shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read, but he didn't look away. For a long, suspended moment, they stood there in the quiet of the evening, the only sound the distant hum of the city.
He didn't smile, but the rigid line of his shoulders seemed to soften almost imperceptibly. "Yes," he said, his voice low and clear in the stillness. "It is."
Then he turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, holding it open for her.
Cora's heart swelled, the single word of confirmation settling deep within her, a balm to her frayed nerves. Our home. He had affirmed it. She took a final, steadying breath of the outside air and crossed the threshold.
The interior was exactly as she had dared to hope—modern, clean, and warmly lit. A spacious open-plan living area greeted them, decorated in neutral tones with hints of deep blue. It felt both new and lived-in, a blank canvas that was already, inherently, theirs.
Ronan set the luggage down by a sleek console table. "I'll show you to your room," he said, his tone practical, but no longer distant.
Cora followed him up the floating staircase, her hand skimming the smooth wooden banister. He led her to a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. The room was beautiful—large, airy, with a bay window overlooking a small, private garden. A king-sized bed with a simple, grey linen duvet dominated the space, and her suitcases, sent ahead by her family, were already waiting neatly in a corner.
She turned to him, her eyes slightly wide. It was more than she had expected.
Ronan gestured into the room. "This is yours. The bathroom is through there." He paused, his gaze sweeping over her face, taking in her silent, overwhelmed reaction. "Get settled. I'll be downstairs."
And with a final, quiet nod, he turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving it not quite shut, but slightly ajar.
Alone, Cora let out a long, slow breath. The overwhelming terror of the car ride was gone, replaced by a fragile, trembling hope. He had been… kind. Not effusive, not romantic, but solid and real. He had acknowledged their home. He had given her space, but not isolation.
She walked to the window, looking out at the shadowy garden below. A single, genuine smile, small and wobbly, finally touched her lips. It was not a fairytale beginning, but it was a beginning. They were here. They were under the same roof. And for now, for this first night, that was enough. The storm in her mind quieted to a whisper, leaving behind only the profound, quiet thrill of a dream, against all odds, beginning to take root.
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