They never agreed to meet.
Not officially. Not with words.
But when she sat down on the bench at 3:17 p.m., the way she had two weeks in a row, she already knew.
He'd come.
And he did.
No mask. No hood. Just himself.
He sat beside her, the air between them warm and expectant.
They didn't speak for a while. They never rushed.
But then he asked, gently:
"Do you want to walk?"
And she said, "Yes," like it was always the answer.
The path curved gently around the lake, soft with spring. The trees above them whispered in the wind, and the gravel beneath their shoes barely crunched.
It didn't feel like a date.
It felt like something older. Quieter. Like a secret being handed between palms.
They didn't talk until they were almost halfway around the loop.
And it started with him.
"I grew up in,North London." he said. "Just me and my mum."
She glanced at him, eyebrows raised softly. "Only child?"
He nodded. "She worked nights. I learned early how to keep quiet."
Her gaze softened. "You still do."
He smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
She didn't answer. Just let the quiet hold them.
Then she said:
"I'm from the States. Midwest. Small town, too many churches. I don't... talk about it much."
He didn't push.
She didn't owe him her wounds.
But she gave them anyway — not all at once. Just a thread.
"There was a lot of yelling. A lot of pretending nothing happened afterward. I think I started writing because I needed a place where I didn't have to lie."
He looked at her. Not with pity. Just stillness.
"I write for the same reason," he said. "To make something out of the parts I don't know how to hold."
They walked for a long time after that.
No more confessions. No more pasts.
Just the present.
And somewhere along the way — it happened.
Their hands brushed.
Light. Accidental. Burning.
He didn't move.
Neither did she.
Then it happened again — slower this time. A graze that lingered half a second longer than it should have.
And this time, when their fingers touched, he turned his palm upward.
Just a little.
A quiet invitation.
But she didn't take it.
Not yet.
Still — the contact stayed, soft and electric, and it left his breath uneven.
And when she looked away, he flexed his hand.
Just like that scene.
Just like Mr. Darcy.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Only In the Silence
FanfictionShe doesn't have a name. Not because she doesn't deserve one, but because he never asked. Not aloud. She came to every performance. She never spoke. Never screamed. Never reached for him like the others did. But she watched. Eyes like moonlight...
