The ocean was quiet that night, its waves rising and falling like a slow breath.
Sarah walked beside Adam, her footsteps light in the sand. She kept her eyes on the sea, not on him. Their hands didn't touch. Not this time.
She didn't know how to look at him after the evening.
She had imagined a night just for them.
But instead, she stood behind him in a room full of wealthy smiles, expensive suits, and polite laughter.
Only watching.
Not belonging.
Adam finally stopped walking.
"Sarah," he said softly.
She didn't answer.
"I know," he breathed. "I know you wanted a night with just us. So did I."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress.
The wind blew gently, but the ache inside her felt heavy.
"I thought," Adam continued, his voice steady but quiet,
"if you met those people, it might help your future. Your independence. Something to stand on… even after—"
He stopped — too late.
The word after hung between them like something sharp.
Sarah's breath trembled.
Her eyes stung.
She turned away, but the first tear had already fallen.
Adam saw.
His expression changed — worry, regret, and something deeper flickered through him.
He stepped closer, slowly.
"Sarah…"
He reached out — not to take, but to ask.
His hand hovered near her cheek.
She didn't pull away.
His thumb brushed the tear from her face, gentle, almost uncertain.
"I won't pretend anymore," he whispered.
She finally looked at him.
His eyes — the ones people called cold — were warm now. Almost fragile.
"It hasn't been a contract for me," he said, voice low, honest.
"Not for a long time."
Her breath caught.
Her heart felt like it was unfolding and breaking all at once.
She didn't answer — she couldn't.
But she stepped toward him.
That was enough.
Adam exhaled softly, as if something inside him had been waiting for that single inch of movement.
He lifted her chin with just two fingers — nothing forceful, just invitation — and she met his gaze, close enough to feel his breath.
When he kissed her, it was slow.
Not rushed.
Not claiming.
Not proving.
Just quiet, deep, and real — like something spoken without words.
Her hands reached up, holding onto his shirt, pulling him closer.
His arms wrapped around her, steady, warm, unshakeable, like he was anchoring her to the earth itself.
They stayed like that for a long time — lips, foreheads, breath, hands — leaning into each other as though the sea itself had brought them together and refused to let go.
The night held them carefully.
And when they returned home, the closeness didn't break.
Their laughter was quiet.
Their movements soft.
Their hearts loud.
And in the dark, when the world fell silent, she fell asleep against him — his cheek resting against her hair — his hand holding hers, fingers woven gently together.
Not a contract.
Not an arrangement.
Just them.