The silence after the car ride was arctic.
Adrian retreated into Victor's office and didn't come out. Not for dinner. Not for the glass of scotch he usually poured himself around nine. Not for anything.
Nora ate leftover pasta alone in the cavernous dining room and tried not to feel like she'd ruined something she couldn't name.
You're everything I can't have and shouldn't want.
I think about you every goddamn second anyway.
The words played on repeat in her head. His voice—raw, desperate, honest in a way that had stripped them both bare.
Then Victor's call. And the immediate shutdown. The walls slamming back into place so fast she'd gotten whiplash.
She washed her plate. Dried it. Put it away. Wandered through the too-big house trying to convince herself she was fine.
Around midnight, she heard his door open. Footsteps down the hall. The kitchen faucet running.
She stayed in her room. Gave him space. Respected the boundaries he so desperately needed.
It felt like dying.
Day one post-confession: Adrian was a ghost.
Up before dawn. Gone before she made it to the kitchen. She found a fresh pot of coffee and a note in his precise handwriting: Had early meeting. There's breakfast in the fridge. –A
Professional. Courteous. Distant.
She didn't see him until dinner, when he appeared long enough to heat up Mrs. Chen's prepared lasagna, eat standing at the counter while responding to emails, and disappear back into the office.
"Busy day?" Nora asked, trying for casual.
"Always." He didn't look up from his phone.
"The Singapore deal?"
"Tokyo. Different project."
"Right."
Silence.
"How was your day?" he asked finally. Still not looking at her.
"Fine. Painted. Waited to hear from the gallery."
"They'll call."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Now he looked up. His eyes were carefully neutral. Giving nothing away. "Your work speaks for itself."
The compliment landed hollow. Like something he was supposed to say, not something he felt.
"Adrian—"
"I should get back to work. Enjoy your dinner."
He left his half-eaten lasagna on the counter and disappeared.
Nora stared at the empty kitchen and felt something crack in her chest.
Day two: worse.
She barely saw him at all. He was up at five, gone by five-thirty. A new note: Won't be back until late. Don't wait up.
She didn't wait up.
But she didn't sleep either.
Instead, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the car ride. His words. The look on his face when he'd said being near you without touching you is the closest thing to torture I've experienced.
He'd meant it. She knew he'd meant it.
So why was he doing this? Why the distance, the cold professionalism, the careful avoidance?
Because he was scared. Because choosing her meant betraying Victor. Because wanting something didn't make it right.
She understood. She did.
She just didn't care anymore.
Day three: Nora stopped trying.
If Adrian wanted to torture himself with restraint and noble self-denial, fine. That was his choice.
But she didn't have to make it easy for him.
She started in the morning. Came down to breakfast in the deep green sundress she'd bought two summers ago and never worn. It was the exact shade of the tie he'd worn to Victor's last charity gala. The tie she'd seen him wear three times since. The color that made his gray eyes look almost silver.
She knew it was his favorite. She'd noticed the pattern—green ties, green pocket squares, the dark emerald sweater he wore on weekends.
Adrian was in the kitchen, mercifully, pouring coffee.
He looked up when she entered.
His gaze tracked down—the fitted bodice, the way the color made her skin glow—before snapping back to her face. His jaw tightened.
"Morning," Nora said brightly.
"Morning." His voice was carefully controlled. He turned back to the coffee maker. "Sleep well?"
"Not really. You?"
"Fine."
Liar.
She poured herself coffee, added cream and sugar, very deliberately brushed past him to reach the refrigerator. Close enough that her arm grazed his.
He went rigid.
"Sorry," she said. Not sorry at all.
Adrian said nothing. Just picked up his coffee and left the kitchen like it was on fire.
Nora smiled into her mug.
That afternoon, she set up in the sunroom with her latest canvas—a sprawling abstract she'd been working on for weeks. All movement and color, trying to capture the feeling of wanting something just out of reach.
Around three, she heard footsteps in the hallway.
Adrian, passing by on his way to the kitchen.
"Adrian?" she called.
The footsteps paused.
He appeared in the doorway. Still in his work clothes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. Looking cautious.
"Yeah?"
"Can I get your opinion on something?"
"I don't know anything about art."
"You know what you like. That's enough." She gestured to the canvas. "Does this work? The composition? Be honest."
He shouldn't come in. She could see him weighing it—the smart choice versus the pull of her request.
He came in.
Stopped a careful distance away, hands in his pockets, studying the painting with genuine attention.
"What's it supposed to be?" he asked.
"Feeling. Not a specific thing."
"What feeling?"
Wanting you.
"Longing," she said instead. "Reaching for something you can't quite touch."
His throat worked. "It's beautiful."
"But does it work? The balance?"
"I think—" He stepped closer, tilted his head. "The right side feels heavy. All that dark blue. Maybe lighten it? Add some of the gold from the center?"
It was exactly right. She'd been feeling the imbalance but couldn't pinpoint why.
"That's perfect," Nora said. "Thank you."
"You would've figured it out eventually."
"Maybe. But you saved me hours of staring at it."
He smiled. Small, but real. The first genuine expression she'd seen from him in days.
"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the door.
"Right. Work. Important business calls."
"Something like that."
But he didn't move. Just stood there, looking at her painting, then at her, something conflicted playing across his face.
"Nora—"
"You don't have to explain," she said quietly. "I get it. Distance. Boundaries. All very reasonable."
"It's not about reasonable. It's about—"
"Survival?"
His eyes met hers. "Yeah."
The honesty gutted her.
"Okay," she said. "I understand."
This time, he did leave.
But Nora noticed he'd been in the sunroom for ten minutes. Ten minutes of conversation, of almost-normal, of looking at her like she mattered.
Progress.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Again.
Insomnia had become her constant companion since moving back—too many thoughts, too much want, too much awareness of Adrian somewhere in this house, probably awake too.
Around eleven, she gave up. Pulled on yoga pants and a tank top, padded downstairs to the theater room. Maybe a movie would help. Something mindless and distracting.
The theater was Victor's pride—twelve leather recliners, massive screen, sound system that cost more than a car. Nora had spent countless nights here as a teenager, escaping into stories that weren't hers.
She scrolled through options. Settled on Casablanca. Black and white romance, doomed and beautiful. Appropriate.
She was twenty minutes in when the door opened.
Adrian stood in the entrance, sweatpants and t-shirt, hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.
"Can't sleep either?" Nora asked.
He looked at the screen. Back at her. "I heard voices. Wanted to make sure—"
"I'm fine. Just watching a movie."
He should leave. They both knew it.
He sat down instead. Two seats away. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain plausible deniability.
They watched in silence. Bogart and Bergman, Paris and Rick's Café, love and sacrifice and all the ways wanting someone wasn't enough.
"Have you seen this before?" Nora asked during a quiet moment.
"Probably a dozen times. It's one of Victor's favorites."
"Mine too. My dad used to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "We'd watch it together. Before."
Before the accident. Before her entire world ended.
Adrian's hand twitched toward hers. Stopped. "I'm sorry. About your parents."
"It's been eight years."
"That doesn't make it stop hurting."
No. It didn't.
They lapsed back into silence. The movie played on. The famous ending—We'll always have Paris. The plane. The fog. Sacrifice disguised as nobility.
"Do you think he regretted it?" Nora asked as the credits rolled. "Letting her go?"
"Every day, probably."
"Then why do it?"
Adrian looked at her. Really looked. "Because sometimes loving someone means choosing what's best for them. Even when it destroys you."
The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Loaded.
"That's bullshit," Nora said.
His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"The noble sacrifice thing. Deciding what's best for someone else without asking them. It's patronizing."
"Or it's caring enough to be selfless."
"Or it's being a coward."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "You don't understand—"
"Don't I?" She turned to face him fully. "You're doing the same thing. Deciding what's best for both of us without actually asking what I want."
"I know what you want."
"Do you?"
"Yes. You want me to stop fighting this. To give in. To take what we both—" He stopped. Breathed hard. "It doesn't matter what we want. Some things are wrong regardless of want."
"Why?"
"Because Victor—"
"Is in London. Because you're older—so what? Because it's complicated—everything worth having is complicated." She leaned forward. "You're hiding behind excuses, Adrian. Call it what it is."
"And what is it?"
"Fear."
He stood abruptly. "I should go."
"Running away. Again."
"Nora—"
"Do you know what I think?" She stood too. "I think you're terrified of wanting something for yourself. Of letting yourself have something good. So you dress it up in nobility and sacrifice and protecting me from yourself, when really you're just protecting yourself from feeling."
His hands curled into fists. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't want this."
"It doesn't matter if I want it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
He left. Again.
But this time, Nora smiled.
Because his voice had cracked. Because he'd sat two seats away instead of leaving entirely. Because every wall he built, she could see the cracks.
Survival, he'd called it.
But survival implied a threat.
And Nora was starting to realize: she wasn't the threat.
The wanting was.
Midnight found her in the sunroom, barefoot in paint-stained jeans and an old Berkeley sweatshirt, working on the canvas Adrian had helped her balance.
She'd added the gold. Lightened the right side. Now she was layering in cerulean blue—bright, shocking, alive. It bled across the canvas like water, like sky, like the feeling in her chest every time Adrian looked at her.
She lost herself in it. The rhythm of brush on canvas, the smell of paint and turpentine, the way color could say what words couldn't.
She didn't hear him approach.
But she felt him. The shift in air. The awareness that prickled along her spine.
Adrian stood in the doorway, still in his work clothes despite the hour, watching her paint with an expression she couldn't read.
Nora didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept painting, layering blue on gold on shadow, letting him watch.
Minutes passed. The only sounds were brush on canvas and her own breathing.
Finally, she set down her brush. Turned.
Their eyes met across the room.
There was paint on her hands. Under her nails. Probably on her face—she had a terrible habit of touching her cheek while working.
Adrian's gaze tracked over her. The messy sweatshirt. The bare feet. The blue staining her fingers.
He pushed off the doorframe. Crossed the room in three strides.
Stopped so close she could feel his body heat. See the pulse hammering in his throat. Count the silver strands in his hair.
His hand came up. Gentle. His thumb brushed her cheekbone.
Came away blue.
"You had paint," he said. His voice was rough. Wrecked.
"I always have paint."
His thumb traced her cheek again. Slower this time. Not removing anything. Just touching.
"You're making this impossible," he whispered.
Nora leaned into his palm. Let herself have this—his skin on hers, his eyes dark and wanting, the careful control finally cracking.
"Good," she said.
His breath hitched.
For one suspended moment, they hung there. His hand on her face. Her pulse racing. The air between them electric.
Then Adrian's other hand came up. Cupped her jaw. Tilted her face toward his.
"Nora," he breathed. Warning. Plea. Prayer.
She rose on her toes. Closed the distance.
Their lips met.
And the world caught fire.