Aurora's Realm
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Morning came faster than I wanted it to.
I hadn't slept much — not after last night. I kept replaying it in my head, every word, every look.
A mistake.
It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. I told myself I needed to hear it, that it would make things easier. But the truth was, it didn't. It only made everything heavier.
By the time sunlight filtered through the curtains, I was already in the kitchen, making coffee. The house was quiet — too quiet, the kind that made you feel like sound itself was afraid to exist.
I didn't know if Dominic had already left or locked himself away in his study again. Maybe that was better. I wasn't ready to see him yet.
I took my cup to the small dining table and opened my sketchbook. My fingers moved automatically — soft lines, nothing in particular, just something to keep my mind from drifting back to him.
My iPad screen lit up on the counter — Alex calling.
I exhaled and answered the FaceTime.
His grin filled the screen instantly. "Morning, sis! You look like you haven't slept."
I typed fast.
I didn't. What's up?
"Well," he said, dragging the word out like he was about to admit something. "You know those rough designs you were working on yesterday? The ones you said were just sketches?"
I paused mid-type.
Yeah. Why?
"I might've… used them," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "They were perfect for the proposal we were putting together. So I polished them a little and sent them over to Dominic's company last night."
My fingers stopped moving.
Alex kept going, cheerful and oblivious. "It's a great opportunity, Aurora. If his team approves it, that could open doors for your work. Dominic's company has one of the best design departments out there."
You sent them to him? Personally?
"Yeah," he said, still smiling. "I attached your drafts to the file myself. Why? Don't tell me you didn't want him to see them?"
I stared at him through the screen, pulse picking up. Then I typed slowly:
No… it's fine.
He grinned. "See? I knew you'd understand. Anyway, I'll call you later if we get a response, alright? Don't stress."
He hung up before I could type another word.
I set the iPad down, staring at the blank screen for a long time.
Don't stress.
Too late.
Because now, somewhere in his perfectly organized office, the man who'd looked me in the eye last night and called everything between us a mistake… was looking at my art.
I turned toward the hallway that led to his study. The door was still closed.
And suddenly, I didn't know what I feared more — that he'd recognized my work… or that he hadn't.
I sat there longer than I should have, staring at the spot where the call had ended. My fingers still hovered above the screen as if I could somehow undo it — take the files back, erase the message, rewind everything.
But I couldn't.
I pushed the iPad aside and took another sip of my coffee, even though it had already gone cold. The silence around me pressed closer, heavy and aware.
I needed to move. Do something. Anything.
I rinsed the cup and walked out of the kitchen, careful not to look toward the study as I passed. The door was still closed, but that didn't stop my chest from tightening each time I saw it.
He was in there — I could feel it.
Working. Reading. Maybe looking through the same designs I'd drawn half-asleep and forgotten to label.
I climbed the stairs instead, heading for my painting room. My safe space.
Inside, the light spilled softly across unfinished canvases, catching streaks of pale gold and blue. I dropped my iPad on the table and leaned against the counter, trying to breathe through the restless knot in my chest.
I picked up a pencil, then set it down. Tried to draw. Couldn't. Tried to hum — except no sound came, just air. My throat ached with the effort.
It wasn't just about the designs. It was him — the thought of him seeing something so personal. My art wasn't meant for eyes like his, sharp and assessing, the kind that noticed every flaw.
I closed my sketchbook and stepped to the window. From here, I could see part of the garden — and the faint movement through the study window below.
He was there.
A familiar silhouette, posture straight, one hand on the desk as he flipped through pages. My breath caught.
For a moment, I just watched. The man everyone called cold and ruthless looked almost… quiet. Thoughtful. Like he wasn't reading at all, but remembering.
Then, as if sensing me, his head tilted slightly toward the window.
I moved back fast, my heartbeat tripping over itself. My back hit the edge of the counter, and I closed my eyes, pressing a hand against my chest.
You're overthinking it, Aurora.
Maybe he hadn't seen me. Maybe he hadn't even opened the file yet.
Still, the thought stayed.
What if he had?
I ran my fingers through my hair, restless. The air in the room felt too small, too thick with everything I couldn't say.
Eventually, I sat on the stool near my easel and let my eyes fall shut, forcing my body to stay still. If I just stayed here long enough, maybe the day would pass quietly. Maybe he'd leave before dinner.
But then I heard it — faint footsteps in the hallway. Measured. Familiar.
They stopped right outside my door.
I froze.
The keypad beeped once — a soft, failed attempt. He didn't know the code. Of course he didn't.
A few seconds of silence passed, and then the footsteps retreated.
My grip on the edge of the stool loosened.
He'd tried to come in.
I didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
Either way, it left me shaking — from what almost happened, and from what didn't.
Evening crept in softly, turning the walls golden before the lights came on.
I hadn't painted much. Mostly, I'd just sat there, watching the daylight fade while my thoughts circled the same thing over and over again.
When my stomach finally growled, I realized I'd missed lunch entirely. The housekeeper had probably already finished for the day.
I stood, stretched my stiff fingers, and hesitated at the door. The keypad light blinked faintly under my fingertips. I entered the code, waited for the soft click, and stepped into the hallway.
The house was calm again. Dim.
As I walked downstairs, the faint clink of glass reached my ears — quiet but unmistakable. Someone was in the kitchen.
I slowed.
Turning the corner, I saw him.
Dominic stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a glass of water. His tie was gone, his hair slightly undone — the kind of detail that shouldn't have made my heart stumble the way it did.
He looked up the moment he sensed me there. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes — quick, unreadable.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he turned slightly, nodding once in acknowledgment. "You're still awake."
I nodded back and reached for my phone, fingers typing before I could overthink it.
I was hungry.
He glanced at the empty counter. "There's food in the fridge. I told Mrs. Langley to leave something for you."
I walked past him carefully, keeping a little too much space between us, and opened the fridge. My reflection in the glass door looked as tense as I felt.
Thank you, I typed, showing him the screen briefly before turning away.
He didn't respond immediately. Just leaned against the counter, glass in hand, watching the faint steam rise from the kettle.
"You've been in your painting room all day," he said finally.
My hands paused on the plate I was setting down. I typed slowly.
It helps me think.
"About?"
The word was quiet, simple — but it landed too deep.
I looked at him. He was watching me now, eyes calm, unreadable again. Waiting.
Work.
He hummed, almost like he didn't believe it. "Of course."
The silence that followed was heavy.
I focused on my food, on the sound of the spoon against the plate. Anything but him. But then I felt it — the shift. That subtle gravity pulling my attention back to him.
He wasn't looking at me anymore. His gaze was fixed on the faint smear of paint still clinging to my wrist.
"You've been busy," he said, and something in his tone softened.
I quickly wiped my hand with a napkin, as if that would erase more than just the color.
Trying to be.
He nodded once, then finished his water and set the glass down. "Good."
He didn't move at first. Just stood there, like he wanted to say something else. Then he stepped away, walking past me toward the hallway.
The air shifted with him — colder, quieter.
He paused briefly at the doorway, his back still to me. "Don't stay up too late."
And then he left.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the space he'd just occupied, my chest too tight and my throat aching with words I couldn't speak.
The house was silent again.
But somehow, the quiet between us felt louder than ever.
I couldn't eat anymore.
The food sat untouched on the plate, steam curling into the dim air.
I hated how easily he could silence me — not with words, but with distance.
My fingers brushed against the edge of the counter, then fell to my side. The air inside the house felt too tight, like it was pressing in on me from all directions. I needed air.
So I grabbed my shawl, slipped on my slippers, and walked out the back door.
The garden greeted me like an old friend — soft wind, faint rustle of leaves, moonlight spilling across the petals. The night smelled like jasmine and something clean. Familiar. Calming.
I exhaled. Finally.
The world outside was slower. Kinder. Here, silence wasn't heavy — it was gentle.
The soft hum of crickets filled the space where words should've been, and for once, that was enough.
I walked between the flowerbeds, brushing my fingertips against the petals, pausing by the small bench near the tulips. My favorite spot. The one place in the world that didn't expect anything from me.
I sat, pulling my knees close to my chest, and stared at the sky. The stars were faint tonight — just small, trembling dots scattered across the dark.
I wondered if he was still awake. If he was thinking about me the way I was trying not to think about him.
I shook the thought away, drawing the shawl tighter around my shoulders.
For a while, I just sat there — breathing, listening, trying to let the quiet seep into me until it didn't hurt anymore.
But it never fully went away.
Eventually, the night grew colder, and I rose slowly, giving the flowers one last look before heading back inside. The hallway lights had dimmed to their nighttime glow, soft and golden. I tiptoed past his study door — closed, silent — and went upstairs.
When I finally crawled into bed, the smell of paint still clung to my fingers.
Sleep came in fragments, soft and fleeting, like the night itself.
The sound of laughter woke me up the next morning. Real laughter — not the kind that echoed through memory.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But when I opened my eyes, sunlight was streaming through the curtains, and voices carried faintly from downstairs.
Warm, familiar voices.
I was on my feet before I could even think. I threw on a loose cream sweater and brushed through my hair quickly before heading down.
The sight that greeted me at the bottom of the stairs made my heart lift — Alex and Damian, both standing in the living room, talking animatedly, laughter spilling into the space.
Alex noticed me first. "There she is!" he said, grinning. "Still the same sleepyhead."
I rolled my eyes and hurried over, already smiling. Damian laughed softly, his easy, familiar grin lighting up the space.
He leaned forward slightly, signing a casual good morning — he'd learned a few signs over time, mostly for me. It made my chest warm every single time.
I smiled back, fingers moving quickly.
You both didn't say you were coming.
"Surprise visit," Alex said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "We brought breakfast too — well, Damian did. He's apparently decided he's a chef now."
Damian chuckled, shaking his head. "Just coffee and pastries, relax."
The lightness between them was contagious. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed this — the laughter, the teasing, the noise. The normalcy.
For the first time in days, I felt alive again.
We moved to the dining room, where they unpacked boxes and plates. The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the air.
Alex started talking about work — a big deal he'd just closed, his words spilling over each other in excitement — while Damian leaned back, sipping his drink, quietly watching me in that calm way of his.
When Alex wasn't looking, Damian mouthed a soft, you okay?
I nodded once, smiling faintly, and he seemed satisfied with that.
For the first time since that night, I didn't feel like I was holding my breath.
The house felt different this morning — lighter.
Maybe it was them.
Maybe it was me trying to forget for a little while.
Either way, for the first time in a long time, it felt like peace.