Richard was humming.
Not a song I recognized, not anything melodic—just a low, absent-minded hum as he buttoned his shirt in the dim light of the bedroom. His back was to me, tall and still damp from the shower, framed against the pale morning.
"You're humming," I said, still half-asleep, my voice tangled in the pillow.
He turned, button halfway done. "Am I?"
I nodded, yawning. "You only do that when you're nervous."
He gave a small smile but didn't deny it. "I've got a meeting with someone from Calein this morning."
That name pulled me awake like ice down my spine.
"Why?"
"Because we can't afford to pretend they don't exist," he said quietly, walking toward the mirror. "Because if we don't engage with them, they'll engage with us."
"Is this about Evan?"
"It's always been about Evan." His voice was calm, measured. But I saw the way his hand paused against the comb. "But this meeting isn't about him. It's someone else—someone higher."
I sat up, wrapping the blanket around me. "And you didn't tell me sooner because…?"
"Because I didn't want to worry you."
I almost laughed. "That's rich."
He turned to face me then, sharp eyes softening. "I'm trying, Lara."
"I know." And I meant it. "But next time—just tell me."
He nodded, the smallest surrender.
He left an hour later, suit crisp, hair still slightly damp. I watched him through the curtain as he walked to the car. He paused before stepping in, looking up at the window.
I didn't move.
Neither did he.
Eventually, the car pulled away.
I went about the morning slowly, letting the hours unfold like cautious pages. Cleaned up the kitchen. Fed the plants. Read through some gallery proposals I didn't remember agreeing to review.
Gallery.
The word stung, and not because of the art.
I hadn't spoken to Evan since the last time he showed up at my studio door. He hadn't pushed again. No calls. No texts. No pop-up appearances like he used to.
It should've made me feel safe.
Instead, it made me feel like something was coming.
Around noon, there was a knock on the door.
For a second, my stomach sank.
But it wasn't Evan.
It was Mira.
Her scarf was soaked from the drizzle, and her cheeks were pink from the cold. She held up a small container, grinning.
"Soup," she said. "Homemade."
I blinked. "You made it?"
"Okay, no. Layla did. But I brought it. Does that still count?"
I stepped aside to let her in, feeling a strange warmth at the sight of her.
She set the container down and took in the apartment, eyes landing on the books, the plants, the familiar painting near the dining table.
"You've made this place feel like you," she said.
"I don't even know what that means."
"It means you breathe better here," she said, shrugging off her coat. "You're not suffocating like before."
She didn't say Richard's name, but I knew she meant him. And something in me relaxed.
We sat on the floor with soup, legs crossed like teenagers. She told me about her new internship, about Layla's wild tech experiments, about how the world outside was still turning.
It was comforting—this pocket of normal.
Until Mira asked, "Do you still love him?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't clarify who "him" was.
She didn't need to.
Richard returned late. He smelled like cold air and expensive coffee, his shoulders tense beneath his coat.
"How was it?" I asked from the couch.
He stood for a moment, deciding what to tell me.
"They know," he said finally. "About everything."
My throat went dry. "Everything?"
"Not just me. You. Your past with Evan. Your family. The studio funding. They have files, Lara."
I stood slowly. "What do they want?"
Richard's jaw clenched. "To remind me that I'm replaceable."
I crossed the room and touched his hand. He didn't move.
"Do you believe that?" I asked.
He looked at me. Tired. Angry. Resigned. "No. But they want you to."
I stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, "I won't give them that."
He nodded. Then pulled me into him.
And I let myself lean.
Because sometimes, the bravest thing we can do isn't fighting back.
It's refusing to vanish.