The night was still.
No rain.
No thunder.
No broken glass.
Just the hum of the city, muted behind the penthouse windows.
Ana lay in bed, back turned to him.
Eyes open.
Heart beating slowly.
Mind not racing — just… listening.
To herself.
To him breathing behind her.
To the question she hadn't asked yet:
"What would it mean if I touched him… and didn't pull away?"
Christian was awake too.
He knew she hadn't fallen asleep.
Her breathing never settled the way it usually did.
He didn't move.
Didn't shift.
Because this wasn't about being held.
It was about being allowed to be near her.
Then—
Quietly.
Softly.
Her fingers reached behind her.
Searching.
Not in desperation.
But in choice.
And they found his hand.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't squeeze.
He just held it.
Like someone who understood:
Forgiveness isn't loud.
It arrives in gestures smaller than pain.
And heavier than guilt.
She still didn't speak.
But her thumb brushed once across his palm.
And he knew.
She hadn't forgotten the file.
Hadn't erased the lie.
But in this moment…
She didn't need him to explain.
She needed him to stay still and feel her stay.
They lay like that.
Fingers tangled.
Hearts quietly aligning again.
No I love you.
No "are we okay?"
Just breath.
And re-entry.
To be continued…