The Quiet Between Moments

It was the way she said it—"I'll wear green"—like she was handing me a key.

She didn't say it with a smirk, didn't toss it out like a flirtation. It was quiet. Soft. Intentional. And it landed in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through every part of me.

After she disappeared down the hall, I stood in the kitchen for several minutes, just staring at the place she'd been. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the clock above the stove—everything felt louder, somehow. Or maybe I was just hyperaware of how much I wanted to chase after her. To tell her everything. That I'd fallen for her despite the contract, despite the cold start, despite my best attempts to guard my own heart.

But I didn't chase.

She was already moving toward me. I could feel it. And I'd waited too long, weathered too many silences between us, to ruin it now by rushing.

Instead, I walked into the living room, sat on the couch, and stared out at the moonlit cityscape of Velmora.

She said she remembers more than I think.

I hoped that meant she remembered the little things. The times I opened her car door even when she glared at me for it. The way I stepped aside during meetings so she could lead. The meals, the flowers, the moments I stayed silent so she wouldn't feel cornered.

Because for Celine Carter-Aldridge, being vulnerable wasn't easy. Every smile she gave me now felt like a battle won.

The next morning, I was up before sunrise, lacing up my running shoes. I needed clarity, and clarity usually came between the pounding of my feet on pavement and the icy rush of morning air in my lungs. I ran through the quieter streets of the city, earbuds in but no music playing, just the rhythm of breath and thought.

By the time I got back, the sky was streaked with lavender and gold. I took a quick shower, changed into a steel-gray button-down and slacks, and headed to the kitchen to brew coffee.

I didn't expect to find her there.

Celine stood by the window, already dressed in a light beige pantsuit, her hair pulled back in a low twist. Elegant. Effortless. Devastating.

She turned at the sound of my footsteps. Her gaze didn't dart away. That was new.

"Good morning," I said, pouring two cups.

She glanced at the second one and arched a brow. "You remembered how I take it?"

"One sugar, no cream."

She accepted the cup, our fingers brushing. Not a jolt of electricity—but something steadier. Familiar. Grounded.

"I have to leave in fifteen," she said, taking a sip. "Early board prep with R&D."

"Big day?"

She nodded. "And apparently, Evelyn added another lunch event for us on Friday. Charity-related. Formal."

"Noted. Want me there?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

Yes.

That one word felt heavier than any boardroom pitch.

We drank in silence for a moment, not the awkward kind but the kind you want to stretch out and settle into. Then she glanced at her watch, muttered something about traffic, and turned toward the door.

"Celine," I called out before she disappeared.

She looked over her shoulder.

"You look incredible in green," I said.

Her lips lifted. "I'll keep that in mind."

And then she was gone.

The rest of the day passed in fragments—calls with Oliver, a financial strategy meeting with the European division, a follow-up with the legal team about the merger's final phase. But through it all, I kept checking my watch, anticipating the moment she would walk through that door again.

I didn't want to miss it.

When 6:30 rolled around, I set the table in the dining nook, lighting a single tapered candle in the center, not for romance, but for ambiance. We had been slowly redefining what togetherness meant. There was no need to rush past that.

At 7:03, she returned.

She wasn't wearing green.

She was wearing navy blue, a soft silk blouse tucked into tailored black trousers. But it didn't matter.

She was radiant. She was here.

And she smiled when she saw the candle.

"You didn't have to go all out," she said.

"I didn't," I replied. "I just didn't want it to feel like another boardroom dinner."

We sat down, and as we ate, we talked. Not just about work. About favorite childhood books. About the worst movies we'd ever seen. About Evelyn's obsession with lavender-infused everything.

She laughed easily, often.

I found myself leaning in without realizing it.

"You never asked me about my first kiss," she said suddenly.

I blinked. "Because I assumed it wasn't my business."

"Well... you're part of my business now."

"Then consider me curious."

She smiled at her plate, toying with her fork. "Never had one. Not until you."

I froze.

"Seriously?"

"College was busy. Then I graduated, took over more of Carter Industries. There wasn't time. No one ever really... tried."

I swallowed hard. "That's a hell of a thing to carry. I—thank you. For trusting me."

Her eyes lifted. "You're different. And I'm... glad it was you."

We didn't move for a moment.

But everything inside me moved.

I wanted to kiss her again. So badly. But I didn't.

Instead, I reached for her hand. And this time, she didn't pull away.

The candlelight flickered between us.

And the quiet was no longer just a pause between conversations—it was the space where something new was growing.