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The silence of the night was no longer empty; it was a conduit. Cora lay with her palm pressed to the wall, the phantom sensation of Ronan's "Good night" lingering in the quiet. She had just tapped back her own secret, her own "I love you," and the space between their rooms now felt charged, intimate. A secret shared in the dark.
The next morning, the air in the house was different. It was lighter, charged with a new, unspoken understanding. When Cora came downstairs, Ronan was already in the kitchen, and two mugs of tea were steaming on the counter. He didn't say good morning. Instead, he lifted his hand and tapped two fingers softly against his own chest, then gestured to her.
You. Okay?
It was her gesture. The one she had used days ago. He was speaking her language.
Cora's heart swelled. She nodded, a genuine, warm smile gracing her lips. She pointed to him, her head tilting in the same questioning arc.
He gave a slow, considering nod. Okay.
They drank their tea in a silence that was richer than any conversation. Later, as they moved through the house, a new rhythm emerged. A single, soft tap on a doorframe from him meant "I'm here." Two quick taps from her in response meant "I know." It was a private code, a game that filled the spaces between them with meaning.
In the study that afternoon, surrounded by the quiet hum of their separate pursuits, Ronan was the one who broke the larger silence. "You read a lot of poetry."
Cora looked up from her book, her expression soft. She nodded, then reached for her notepad.
It is easier to feel than to explain. Poetry understands that.
He considered this, his gaze intense. "I don't really get it," he admitted. "The hidden meanings."
Cora thought for a moment, then wrote a single line, the one that lived in her own heart, and held it out to him.
"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)".
Ronan read the line. His eyes softened, not with full comprehension of the poetry, but with comprehension of her. He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the words.
"That's by E.E. Cummings," he said, his voice low.
Cora's eyes widened in shock. She nodded, a question in her expression.
A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. It was a rare, beautiful sight. "I looked him up. After I saw the book on your desk."
The admission was simple, but its impact was seismic. He had been curious. About her. He had seen a piece of her world and had sought to understand it.
Cora's breath caught. Her eyes grew bright, shimmering with the overwhelming force of her feelings. A single tear escaped, tracing a quiet path down her cheek, but she was smiling—a radiant, tremulous smile that spoke of a hope so profound it hurt.
She didn't need to write a response. The tear, the smile, the slight, overwhelmed press of her hand to her chest said everything.
Ronan watched her, his usual reserve completely gone, replaced by a look of quiet awe. He had not given her flowers or jewelry. He had given her the knowledge that he saw her, that he was trying to learn the intricate map of her soul. And for Cora, that was everything. In the quiet of the study, a deeper connection than any they had yet forged clicked silently into place. He had offered a key, and she had unlocked her heart just a little more.
The shared silence in the study stretched, but it was no longer the quiet of two strangers. It was the deep, resonant quiet of two people listening to the same song. Cora finally lowered her hand from her chest, her smile softening into something more serene, more sure. She picked up her pen, not to explain the poetry, but to meet his honesty with her own.
Why did you look him up?
It was a brave question, pushing past the simple fact of his action and into the motivation behind it. She held the notepad steady, her brown eyes wide and earnest, waiting for his answer.
Ronan held her gaze, his own thoughtful. He seemed to be weighing his words, choosing them with the same care she chose hers. "Because it was important to you," he said, his voice low and even. "I saw the book was worn. The pages were bent. It wasn't just a book on a shelf."
Cora's breath hitched. He had seen that? He had noticed the physical evidence of her love for those words, the intimate history written in dog-eared pages and a cracked spine. It felt more vulnerable than if he had read her diary. She looked down at the book in her lap, seeing it through his eyes—not as an object, but as an extension of herself.
She wrote again, her hand trembling slightly.
It was my mother's. She read it to me. It was the last thing she gave me before she passed.
The words were stark on the page, a piece of her history offered up to him. It was the reason the poetry was more than words; it was a tether to a love that had been silenced, a ghost in the rhythm of the lines.
Ronan's expression shifted from curiosity to a profound, quiet gravity. He didn't offer empty condolences. He didn't look away from the raw pain he saw in her eyes. Instead, he did something that conveyed more than any words could. He slowly reached out and covered her hand, the one resting on the notepad, with his own. His touch was warm, solid, an anchor in the storm of her memory.
"I understand," he murmured.
And she knew he did. He wasn't just acknowledging her loss. He was acknowledging the weight of the book, the sacredness of the gesture, the reason why a line of poetry could make her cry with both sorrow and joy. He was telling her he saw the whole, complicated truth of her.
Cora turned her hand over beneath his, lacing her fingers with his. It was the first time she had initiated the contact so deliberately. She squeezed, once, a silent thank you, a silent promise.
In the quiet study, surrounded by the ghosts of poets and a mother's love, they sat, hands clasped, building a new memory, a new anchor, together.
The warmth of his hand was a brand, a permanent imprint that seemed to travel up her arm and settle deep within her chest. They sat like that for a long moment, the poetry forgotten, the world outside the study window ceasing to exist. There was only the gentle pressure of his palm against hers, the rough texture of his skin against her softness, the silent understanding flowing between them like a current.
Slowly, reluctantly, Ronan withdrew his hand. The loss of contact was a physical ache, but the look in his eyes was worth it. The usual grey reserve was gone, replaced by a softness, a warmth that made Cora's heart stutter.
"We should…" he began, his voice slightly husky. He cleared his throat. "We should probably think about dinner."
It was a retreat to practicality, but it felt different now. It wasn't a dismissal; it was an invitation to continue this new, fragile thing they were building in the mundane spaces of their life.
Cora nodded, giving him a small, reassuring smile. She picked up her notepad.
I can make the pasta again?
He shook his head, a decisive gesture that surprised her. "No. My turn." He stood up, his movements purposeful. "There's a place that delivers. Good pizza. We could… eat in the living room. Watch something."
It was a plan. A simple, domestic plan he had formulated and offered. Cora's smile widened, becoming radiant. She nodded eagerly, her joy so palpable it seemed to light up the dimming room.
An hour later, the pizza box sat open on the coffee table, the greasy, cheesy scent a welcome change from the formality of their previous meals. They sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, a science documentary playing on the screen that neither was truly watching. It was just moving light and sound, a backdrop for the real event: the easy, comfortable silence between them.
Ronan offered her the last slice, a simple gesture that felt incredibly intimate. When their fingers brushed during the exchange, neither flinched. The touch was acknowledged, a small, pleasant spark in their new normal.
As the credits rolled, Ronan gathered the empty box and plates. Cora stayed on the floor, hugging her knees, watching him move around their home. Their home. The words finally felt completely, unshakably true.
He paused in the doorway, looking back at her. "I'm going to turn in," he said.
Cora nodded, her heart full. She watched him go, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. When she heard his bedroom door click shut, she rose and turned off the lights, plunging the living room into darkness.
In her own room, she prepared for bed, the events of the day playing through her mind like a beautiful, slow melody. She slipped under the covers and lay on her side, facing the wall. She pressed her palm flat against the cool plaster, her heart beating a hopeful rhythm.
A few minutes later, it came. Faint, but clear.
Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap.
-. .. -.
Good night.
A serene peace settled over her. She closed her eyes, her hand still resting on the wall, and tapped back, her knuckles gentle against the surface.
Dash-dash-dash. Dot-dot-dot. Dash-dash-dash.
... --- ...
I love you.
No other words were needed. The conversation was complete. The wall between them was no longer a barrier, but a bridge, and across it, in the quiet dark, their two silent hearts beat in perfect, harmonious time.
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