The house was quieter than Annabel remembered.
Not empty—just paused. Like it was holding its breath.
She had come back for the weekend under the safe excuse of logistics. Old documents. The boxes her mother wanted sorted. A practical reason that didn't betray the way her heart accelerated when she heard Richard's car pull into the driveway.
Years had passed. Enough to pretend distance had solved everything. Enough to lie convincingly to herself.
Richard looked different. Sharper around the edges. Broader shoulders. A calm that felt earned rather than practised. When their eyes met, something old and familiar reactivated—immediate, undeniable.
"Hey," he said.
The word carried history.
They moved through the house like professionals avoiding a merger discussion. Polite. Efficient. Careful not to touch. Careful not to linger. It was impressive, honestly—the level of discipline required to pretend nothing was there.
Night came quietly.
The power went out without warning.
Annabel laughed before she could stop herself—soft, surprised. "Of course."
Richard found candles. Muscle memory. He had always been prepared. When he handed one to her, their fingers brushed—brief, electric, catastrophic.
Neither of them moved.
The air shifted.
"You still open the windows at night," Richard said, not a question.
She swallowed. "You still notice."
Silence stretched—not awkward, just heavy. Weighted.
"I used to think," Richard began, then stopped. His jaw tightened. "Never mind."
Annabel's heart kicked hard against her ribs. She had spent years practising restraint. Tonight, it cracked.
"Say it," she said quietly.
He looked at her then—really looked. The careful distance in his eyes wavered.
"I used to think if I said the wrong thing," he said slowly, "I'd ruin something I couldn't fix."
Annabel stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough to make honesty unavoidable.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I think not saying it did just as much damage."
The room felt smaller. Or maybe they were just finally standing inside the truth.
"I never crossed the line," Richard said. "But pretending I didn't feel anything—that was a lie."
Annabel closed her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, her voice was steady, even as everything else trembled.
"I loved you," she said. Past tense, chosen deliberately. "Quietly. On purpose."
Richard exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for years.
"I know."
That landed harder than a confession.
They stood there—so close, so aware—balanced on the edge of something irreversible. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows that blurred the space they refused to cross.
"I don't know what this means," Annabel said.
Richard nodded. "Me neither."
He reached out, then stopped—his hand hovering, restrained by the same discipline that had defined them from the beginning.
"I just needed you to know," he said.
She smiled, small and sad and relieved all at once. "I did."
The power returned abruptly. Lights flooded the room, dissolving the moment.
They stepped back at the same time.
Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had been crossed.
But the silence, the one they'd both been hiding behind—was gone.
And somehow, that changed everything.