The house was quiet—but not asleep.
That mattered.
Annabel and Richard stood in the hallway outside her room, neither of them saying the obvious: that one step forward would change everything. They hadn't planned to stop here. They'd just… slowed down together.
"I keep thinking," Annabel said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that if we stay disciplined long enough, this will soften."
Richard looked at her. Really looked. "And does it?"
She shook her head. "It sharpens."
That was the truth neither of them had said aloud yet.
He leaned against the wall, close enough now that Annabel could feel him without being touched. The tension wasn't chaotic—it was focused. Like a wire pulled too tight.
"I don't want to rush you," Richard said. "But I don't want to keep pretending that distance is neutral."
Annabel swallowed. "Distance feels like punishment."
That landed.
He reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was the smallest thing. It felt like everything. Annabel closed her eyes before she could stop herself.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.
She opened her eyes. "I don't want you to."
The intimacy didn't explode. It compressed.
He rested his forehead against hers, their breathing syncing without effort. Annabel's hands came up—not clinging, not desperate—just resting against his chest, as if to confirm he was real.
"I've never felt more like myself than I do right here," she whispered. "And I hate how much I've been editing that away."
Richard exhaled slowly. "I thought loving you meant knowing when to step back." A pause. "But I think it also means knowing when stepping back is a lie."
They stayed like that—too close to call innocent, too restrained to call reckless. Every second stretched. Every breath mattered.
Annabel tilted her head slightly, just enough that their noses brushed.
"I don't want to disappear anymore," she said.
He answered by kissing her—soft, restrained, intentional. A kiss that didn't ask for more but promised depth. When they pulled apart, the space felt heavier than before.
They didn't move away.
They didn't move closer.
They stayed—choosing the tension instead of running from it.
"Whatever comes," Richard said, his thumb brushing lightly against her wrist, grounding her, "we face it awake. Together."
Annabel nodded, resting her forehead against his shoulder for just a moment longer than was safe.
The intimacy hadn't broken them.
It had tightened—focused—become something they would now have to carry.
And somewhere in the house, unseen but present, pressure waited.