The house learned new rhythms.
Not dramatic ones. Subtle adjustments that only those living inside could feel. Annabel noticed it in the way doors stayed open longer than necessary, in the way footsteps paused outside rooms before moving on. Privacy wasn't revoked—but it was thinner now. Translucent.
So they adapted.
Romance didn't disappear. It became quieter. Smarter.
Annabel and Richard stopped meeting by accident and started meeting with intention—brief moments carved from ordinary routines. A shared cup of tea before anyone else woke. Passing notes slipped into books. Fingers brushing in the hallway, never lingering long enough to be questioned, but long enough to be felt.
It was restraint, yes—but it was also devotion.
One evening, Annabel sat on the back steps just after sunset, knees pulled to her chest. Richard joined her without asking. He sat beside her, leaving the careful space they'd agreed on, but close enough that she could feel his warmth.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Better than I thought I'd be."
He smiled faintly. "Same."
They watched the sky shift colours, silence settling comfortably between them. The tension was there—unavoidable—but it no longer felt like an enemy. It felt like something they were holding together.
"I hate that we have to be careful," Annabel said softly.
"I don't," Richard replied.
She turned to him, surprised.
"I mean—I do," he clarified. "But it also reminds me that this isn't casual. That you're not something I'm allowed to take lightly."
Her chest tightened—not with fear, but with affection.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, just briefly. A calculated risk. Richard stayed perfectly still, letting the moment exist without expanding it.
Inside the house, someone laughed. A television turned on. Life continued.
"I don't feel hidden with you," Annabel said. "Even now."
Richard looked down at her, eyes steady. "That's all I ever wanted."
Later that night, they stood in the kitchen, alone but alert. Annabel handed him a glass of water, their fingers touching longer than planned. He didn't pull away.
"You're shaking," he said quietly.
"Not from fear," she replied. "From wanting to stay."
He stepped closer—still careful, still respectful—but close enough that the tension tightened rather than eased.
"Then stay," he said. "Just… stay smart."
She smiled. "You always bring strategy into romance."
He shrugged. "Someone has to manage risk."
She kissed him then—quick, restrained, but full. A kiss that carried patience, promise, and pressure all at once. When they pulled apart, both were smiling—not carefree, but certain.
The tension didn't leave.
But neither did the love.
And as the house continued to watch, to adjust, to wait—Annabel and Richard learned something unexpected:
Romance didn't need freedom to survive.
Sometimes, it thrived on intention.