It happened in daylight.
That was the mistake.
The family gathering wasn't formal—just one of those semi-public afternoons that invited observation without announcing it. Neighbors drifted in and out. Relatives clustered in loose conversations. Laughter moved easily through the house, the kind that suggested comfort rather than celebration.
Annabel was carrying a tray from the kitchen when it happened.
She didn't fall—just misstepped. The weight shifted too fast. Glasses clinked sharply, tilting toward the edge.
Richard moved without thinking.
He crossed the space between them in a single stride, hands steadying her—one at her waist, the other catching her elbow. Familiar. Instinctive. Intimate in a way that couldn't be rehearsed.
"I've got you," he said quietly.
Annabel looked up at him.
And forgot where they were.
Her hand curled into the front of his shirt—not fear, not panic—recognition. Grounding. She stayed there half a second too long, breathing slowing only once she fully registered him.
"I'm okay," she said softly.
But she didn't step away.
Neither did he.
The pause landed wrong.
The room shifted—conversations thinning, laughter dropping a degree. Someone noticed the shape of the moment. Then someone else.
Richard felt it first.
He stepped back—not abruptly, but not smoothly either. Annabel released his shirt like she'd just realized where her hand was.
"I'm fine," she repeated, louder now. Careful.
Someone laughed—too sharp to be casual.
"Well," an aunt said lightly, "good thing Richard was close."
The words were harmless.
The meaning wasn't.
Annabel felt eyes move—not accusing, not shocked—measuring. Her mom's gaze lingered longer than necessary, brow faintly furrowed, like she was replaying the moment from a different angle.
Across the room, Annabel's stepfather looked up from his conversation. His expression didn't change—but his attention did. Focus sharpened. Something clicked into place.
Richard cleared his throat. "I'll take that."
He lifted the tray from Annabel's hands, giving her space, giving the room a reason to resume breathing.
Noise returned. Conversations restarted.
But nothing reset.
Later, Annabel found Richard near the edge of the yard, hands in his pockets, posture tight.
"That looked—" she began.
"Like instinct," he finished quietly. "Yeah."
"I didn't think," she admitted.
"That's the problem," he said gently. "Neither did I."
Inside the house, laughter rose again—but it carried curiosity now. The ease had shifted. Awareness had replaced ignorance.
No one said anything.
No one needed to.
That was the moment the family stopped wondering if something was there.
And started wondering what it was—and how long it had been right in front of them.