Richard spotted Robert through the café window before stepping inside; sitting alone at a small corner table, a cappuccino cooling in front of him. That man loved his coffee. His posture was familiar: composed, but with that subtle tautness that meant news was coming.
He crossed the room and slid into the seat opposite.
"You sounded serious on the phone. Everything all right?"
Robert exhaled slowly. "Yes. Actually… more than all right." A small pause. "I didn't want you hearing this from anyone else."
Richard raised a brow. "You're not disappearing on me again, are you? Because that's unacceptable."
A genuine laugh slipped from Robert; brief, but warm. "No. Nothing like that. It's… Isabelle. She's pregnant. We found out on Christmas Eve."
For a heartbeat Richard simply stared — then the joy broke across his face, swift and unrestrained. "Robert. That's incredible. Congratulations, my friend."
"It is, thank you," Robert said softly. "We're both over the moon." His fingers tapped once against the cup. "And the wedding… we've moved it. To September."
"Is Isabelle alright?" Richard asked, concern flickering at the edges.
Robert nodded, though worry lingered beneath the surface. "She's having morning sickness — though why they call it that I'll never know. It lasts all day. I just want her well. I want her to enjoy it."
Richard let the news settle warmly. "Pregnancy is tough, but Isabelle is strong. She'll be fine. I'm happy for you. Truly."
Robert hesitated; just a flicker, then said, "We didn't tell you earlier because of your birthday party. And… Eleanor."
Richard's jaw tightened, though his voice stayed steady. "She moved out the very next day."
"I know." Robert's tone gentled. "She offered to leave, didn't she?"
"She did," Richard said, releasing a long breath. "Said she wanted to 'enjoy being single' again, and didn't want the responsibility of the children."
Robert grimaced. "I'm sorry."
A bitter huff slipped from Richard. "Her selfishness became more obvious after that night."
"I thought you had enough to deal with," Robert admitted quietly. "I didn't want to add more to your worries."
Richard managed a crooked smile. "I'm sturdier than I look, you know."
Robert's answering smile was soft. "I've always known that."
Richard ordered his coffee, stirring sugar into it as the café settled around them with its familiar hum of clinking cups, muted conversations, the rustle of newspapers. Somehow the normalcy made everything steadier.
His thoughts drifted. A memory surfaced with surprising clarity; a week, five years ago, when a new junior assistant had filled in while his secretary was out sick.
She had been young. Quiet voice. Neutral clothes. Composed in that careful way people are when they're still learning the rhythm of a workplace.
She'd stepped into his office with a stack of reports.
"Thank you…" He'd started to say. But she was already out the door.
She hadn't offered her name.
Over the weeks, she became a soft, unobtrusive constant; efficient, calm, always prepared.
If he had been paying attention then, he might have seen the determination glinting beneath her gentleness, the quiet intelligence in her eyes.
But he'd been locked inside deadlines, pressures, the slow collapse of a marriage he no longer had the strength or clarity to save.
Richard leaned back. "You know… I remember my first impression of Isabelle."
Robert looked up, curious. "Oh? Go on."
"She was quiet," Richard said. "Not shy; just measured. Like she chose her words instead of wasting them. And I noticed the way she watched you."
Robert blinked. "Watched me?"
"Yes," Richard said with a small smile. "With interest. Warm interest. You, of course, noticed nothing."
"Obviously," Robert muttered, ducking his head with a faint flush.
"And more than that," Richard continued, the memory unfolding easily now. "She had a steadiness about her. A groundedness. She wasn't dazzled by noise or bravado. She looked at everything — and everyone — as though she could see beneath the surface. She didn't rush, didn't perform, didn't put on an act. She simply… existed with this quiet confidence." He smiled. "It struck me as rare."
Robert sat back, a slow, soft grin blooming across his face — almost boyish. "My first impression of her? I thought she was trouble."
Richard raised a brow. "Good trouble?"
"The best," Robert said, eyes warming at the memory. "I walked into the office, all charm and bravado, ready to make a good impression; and she just kept writing. Perfect handwriting, infuriatingly perfect. When she finally looked up, it wasn't shy. It wasn't impressed. It was —"
"Appraising," Richard supplied.
"Exactly." Robert pointed at him. "Like she was cataloguing every one of my flaws with absolute accuracy. Not judging, just... observing. And for five straight minutes, all I could think was, 'God help me, I've just met someone who sees straight through me.'"
"That is very her," Richard said with a warm smile.
"And she didn't flirt," Robert added, quieter now. "Didn't try to charm. Didn't try to be liked. Everyone else in that office tried so hard — you remember the atmosphere. But she…" He shook his head, smiling softly. "She was just herself. Entirely. That's what caught me first. Her competence, her steadiness. Her character."
Richard's smile deepened at the quiet reverence in his friend's voice.
"First time I met her," Richard said, "she barely spoke. Came in with files for my eleven o'clock. I thought she was another temporary assistant who wouldn't last the month." He chuckled. "Shows what I know."
Robert laughed under his breath. "She told me later she thought you were intimidating on her first day."
"Me?" Richard blinked. "Intimidating?"
"Well… not in the traditional sense." Robert smirked. "She said you had this intensity. The kind that comes from holding too much together at once. She noticed that before anything else, her words."
Richard looked down at his coffee, unexpectedly moved. "She read me that well?"
"She reads everyone that well," Robert said gently. "But she's kind about it. She doesn't pry. She just… understands."
Richard nodded, a warmness settling in his chest. "She truly is remarkable."
A soft affection settled across Robert's face; steady, certain. "I didn't expect to fall for anyone again," he admitted. "Least of all someone who dismantled every defence I had just by existing."
Richard nudged his arm lightly. "You deserve this happiness," he said. "Both of you."
Robert held his gaze, gratitude, quiet and deep.
For a moment, the past seemed to settle between them; the years of silence, distance, hurt; and then, slowly, it lifted. Something gentler taking its place.
Richard drifted again, further back this time.
Several years earlier, life had been a blur: meetings, deadlines, the company expanding beyond his expectations. Chloe at twelve — bright, fierce. Drew at ten — gentle, thoughtful.
And beneath it all, something inside him had gone still.
Frozen.
He hadn't known how still until a conference in Berlin.
He remembered the hum of conversations in six languages, the clatter of glassware, the artificial brightness of the conference hall. He had looked to his left as he ordered a drink and —
There he was.
Robert. Leaner. Older. Sharper around the edges. But unmistakably him.
"Robert?" Richard had said, smiling.
Robert had lifted his head; hesitation flickering, then softening into something almost relieved.
"Richard."
They had talked for hours. Work, life, the years in between. Robert spoke little of the divorce; but the scars lived in every silence, every careful pause.
And when Richard invited him to dinner back in London, Robert had smiled faintly.
"Somewhere public. Not your place."
A boundary; but a soft one.
A sign something was healing, slowly.