The Art of Falling Slowly

The days after their quiet confession passed like soft pages in a book, unhurried and carefully turned. There were no grand declarations, no rose petals on the bed or candlelit rooftop dinners. But there were shared coffees, quiet walks, and stolen glances filled with meaning. And that, Elena realized, was what real love felt like—an anchor in the storm, not a firework that burned out.

Still, falling in love was never tidy.

"You're humming," Paige said one afternoon as Elena adjusted fabric swatches for a client. "And smiling. Either you've lost your mind or someone's been making you very happy."

Elena flushed but didn't deny it. "Maybe both."

Paige raised an eyebrow. "Is this about a certain tall, broody man with tragic eyes and questionable communication skills?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't sum up my love life like the blurb of a bad drama."

Paige grinned. "Then tell me it's serious."

Elena hesitated. "I think it could be."

Could be. Should be. Was becoming.

Later that evening, she found herself waiting outside Aidan's office, watching the lights flicker through the frosted glass door. He'd been swamped with meetings all day, preparing for a potential overseas expansion. He hadn't asked her to come by, but something in her had wanted to be near him.

When he finally opened the door and found her sitting there, surprise softened his features.

"You're here."

"You sound shocked."

"I am," he admitted, stepping closer. "But I'm glad."

She stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. "I thought maybe we could walk. No phones, no work. Just us."

His answer was to take her hand.

They walked in silence at first, through streets slowly emptying beneath the evening sky. The hum of city life faded into background noise as they meandered aimlessly.

"I used to think love had to be dramatic," Elena said. "Full of conflict and wild passion. But this—what we're doing—it's quiet. It sneaks up on me."

Aidan stopped, turning to face her. "Do you want it to be more dramatic?"

She shook her head. "No. I think I want exactly this."

He stepped closer. "So do I."

Then he bent and kissed her forehead, not with hunger, but with reverence.

That night, as they lay tangled beneath sheets, no words were needed. Their bodies spoke a language that had learned patience, forgiveness, and the courage to be vulnerable. Every touch, every sigh, was a promise: we're not running anymore.