Hazel found him in the study that afternoon.
He was sketching again.
Not her this time—but a tree. Bare branches against a winter sky, inked with sharp strokes. Stark. Lonely.
She stood in the doorway for a long time before speaking.
"Is that the tree from the garden?" she asked softly.
Adrian paused. Nodded once.
She stepped in, barefoot, her arms crossed loosely over her sweater.
"I didn't know you drew."
He didn't respond.
She reached the edge of the desk and tapped the corner. "Can I ask you something?"
A slight hesitation. Then a barely perceptible nod.
Hazel sat on the other side of the desk, legs tucked under her.
"What was she like?" she asked. "Your mother."
Adrian's hand froze mid-line.
Hazel waited.
She didn't push. Just watched.
Adrian set the pen down carefully. Sat back. Eyes distant.
"She was… cold," he said finally. His voice rough, like gravel.
Hazel blinked.
"Not cruel," he clarified. "Just… detached. Everything had rules. Even emotions."
He looked at her then, and something in his gaze flickered.
"She didn't like noise."
Hazel felt her breath catch.
"She'd snap her fingers instead of calling my name. Tap the table twice for silence. I learned early that speaking… made things worse."
Hazel's hands tightened around the edge of her sweater.
"I had a tutor once," he continued. "When I was seven. He said I might grow out of it. That I was just quiet. Reserved."
A pause.
"Then I tried to read a poem out loud at school." He gave a short, bitter exhale that wasn't quite a laugh. "She pulled me out the next day."
Hazel's chest ached.
Adrian looked down at his hands. "Eventually, I just stopped trying."
The room was silent.
But it was a different kind of silence now.
Not empty.
Not cold.
Just… open.
Vulnerable.
Hazel leaned forward. "Did Erin ever ask?"
Adrian didn't answer.
Which, ironically, was an answer.
Hazel looked down. "I would've asked."
"I know."
His voice was barely audible.
Hazel smiled, faint but sincere. "You're not broken, you know."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You're just a little… tangled," she added. "Like earbuds left in a drawer too long."
Adrian blinked.
Then—surprisingly—his lips twitched. Almost a smile.
Hazel sat back, satisfied. "That's progress."
Adrian shook his head slightly. "You're different."
"I'm me," she said.
Another pause.
He studied her.
Then said softly, "I don't hate it."
Hazel's heart did a somersault.
⸻
Later that evening, Hazel stood in front of her mirror, brushing her hair slowly.
The day's conversation kept echoing in her mind.
She had expected pain. Distance. Cold walls.
But instead… Adrian had given her a sliver of the truth.
And somehow, that hurt more.
Because it meant he'd never been heartless.
Just… afraid.
Someone knocked on her door—soft, hesitant.
She turned.
Adrian stood there.
Holding something.
A small box.
"I… forgot," he said, voice strained, "to give you this."
She took it.
Opened it.
Inside—a ring.
Simple. Elegant. Gold with a tiny sapphire set in the band.
Not flashy. Not loud.
It looked… like her.
Hazel looked up, eyes wide.
Adrian cleared his throat. "I ordered it last month. Before…"
He didn't finish.
Hazel whispered, "It's beautiful."
He nodded once, awkward.
She looked at him, really looked.
Then, without thinking, she stepped forward—and hugged him.
No warning.
No hesitation.
Her arms wrapped around his waist, her cheek against his chest.
He froze.
Then slowly, very slowly, his arms came up around her.
This time, it wasn't stiff.
It wasn't forced.
It was real.
Warm.
And terrifying.
Because now she knew:
He wasn't pushing her away.
He was trying—quietly, painfully—to let her in.