Chapter Six "The Language of Silence"

Braemar had a way of making time slow. The days passed gently, like pages turning in a book whose story you didn't want to end. And Eleanor found herself losing track of hours spent in quiet places: by the fire, in the garden behind Callum's cottage, or walking the narrow paths that wove through the village.

She didn't speak much at first. Neither did Callum. But somehow, the silences between them didn't feel empty. They felt… honest. And in them, Eleanor heard things she'd never noticed before: the hush of the wind in the pines, the soft thud of Callum's boots as he moved about the cottage, the way he hummed under his breath when he worked with his hands.

One evening, she stood by the window while he carved something at the table. The late sun spilled gold across his shoulders, catching in the rough strands of his hair. She didn't mean to stare, but she did. He seemed at home in his skin, in this quiet life—something she wasn't sure she'd ever felt.

"What are you making?" she asked, finally.

He glanced up, his gaze steady and calm. "Something for you."

The words landed like a stone in her chest. She watched as he turned the small piece of wood in his hands, smoothing its edges. It was a pendant, shaped like a wildflower—the ones he'd taught her to recognize on their rides.

"You don't have to," she murmured.

"I know."He said it simply. Like it was enough.

When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, and a quiet warmth bloomed in her throat. She closed her hand around the charm, surprised by how much it meant to hold something made by him. Something that felt like it belonged.

For the first time in weeks, she laughed softly. "You should've been a poet."

He chuckled, low and rough-edged. "I'm no good with words.""You don't need them," she said.

And she meant it.