The black car slid through the Manhattan traffic beneath a sky the colour of iron. The week had vanished too fast, as though time itself had taken sides against them.
Amelia sat beside Alexander in silence, her hand resting quietly in his, the city flickering past in flashes of light — the river, the bridges, the skyline retreating like a secret.
Neither spoke until they reached the airport.
The air smelled faintly of rain and jet fuel; the low roar of departing planes filled the distance.
He watched her as they walked through security, the soft rhythm of her heels on the polished floor, the way she kept her gaze forward — poised, calm, but too quiet.
Once seated in the VIP lounge, she finally spoke.
"Feels strange leaving," she said, stirring the coffee she didn't want.
"Strange how?"
"As if we were somewhere that didn't quite exist," she replied, smiling faintly. "Now it's over, and I don't know what we were."
He studied her for a moment. "We still are."
She looked at him then, eyes blue and uncertain. "Are we?"
Before he could answer, the attendant announced boarding for their flight to Manchester.
On the plane, they sat side by side — first class, windows reflecting the fading light of the runway. The hum of engines filled the space between them.
She turned slightly toward the window, pretending to watch the tarmac lights. Her hand rested on the armrest between them, not quite touching his.
He noticed, of course. He always noticed.
When the plane lifted through clouds, the city shrinking to a scatter of gold below, he leaned closer. "Are you cold?"
She shook her head. "No. Just tired."
But when he reached for the small blanket and draped it over her knees, she didn't stop him.
He didn't lean back immediately either — just stayed there, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the scent of his cologne familiar now, dangerous in its comfort.
"I don't want this to end," he said quietly.
She hesitated. "You know it has to."
"I know what's expected," he corrected. "That's not the same thing."
She turned then, meeting his eyes. The light from the reading lamp softened the sharpness of his features — the jawline, the mouth that always seemed to hide more than it said. For the first time she saw something like weariness there, a kind of longing that had nothing to do with power.
"Alexander," she said softly, "this week… it felt like another world. But we both know it can't follow us home."
He smiled sadly. "You're wrong. It already has."
The hours passed in soft fragments — the whisper of air, the dimmed cabin lights, the rustle of pages as he handed her a newspaper she didn't read.
At one point, turbulence shook the plane slightly. Without thinking, she reached for his hand. He closed his around hers instantly.
Neither of them let go after that.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, while most of the cabin slept, he spoke again.
"Do you ever think about what your life might be like in ten years?"
"Sometimes," she said. "Usually when I can't sleep."
"And what do you see?"
She smiled faintly. "Peace. Maybe a little house with a garden. Work I love. People I trust."
He watched her profile in the half-light. "You didn't say happiness."
"I think peace and happiness are the same thing," she murmured.
He looked down at their joined hands, at the small contrast between them — his skin against hers, the difference of age and experience and everything that should have kept them apart. "Then maybe I've been chasing the wrong one."
When dawn touched the edge of the sky, they were already descending.
The flight attendant moved down the aisle, drawing the blinds halfway, and the pale light fell across Amelia's face as she slept lightly against his shoulder.
He didn't move. He sat perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break whatever spell had carried them through the night.
He wanted to memorise the moment — the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the way her hair brushed his jacket, the peace he hadn't felt in years.
He thought about everything waiting for him in Manchester — the meetings, the emails, the faces that expected control. And he knew that once they stepped off this plane, the world would start asking questions neither of them were ready to answer.
But for now, she was asleep against him, and the sun was rising.
He leaned slightly closer, whispered so softly that only the engines could hear:
"Whatever happens, I don't regret a single second."
When the wheels touched down, she stirred, blinking as the city came into view — grey sky, rain again, the familiar skyline that suddenly looked foreign.
"Home," she said quietly.
He smiled. "Something like it."
They disembarked in silence, walking side by side through customs, luggage rolling on polished floors.
At the exit, their driver waited. The moment felt fragile — as if one wrong word could shatter everything.
"See you Monday?" she asked.
"Monday," he agreed.
But as she turned to go, he reached for her hand one last time. "Amelia."
She looked back.
"Don't pretend this didn't happen."
Her lips parted as if to answer, but she didn't. Instead, she gave him a small, trembling smile — the kind that says I'll remember, even if I can't promise anything.
Then she was gone, stepping into the grey morning, leaving him with the echo of her perfume and the ache of something that felt dangerously like love.
That evening, alone in his apartment, Alexander stood by the window watching the rain slide down the glass. Manchester looked as it always had — practical, grounded, predictable — and yet, to him, it had changed entirely.
Because now he knew what it was to want something he couldn't control.
And somewhere across the city, he hoped she was looking at the same rain, thinking of him too.
Sunday dawned pale and quiet over Manchester, the kind of morning that carried the scent of coffee and wet streets.
Amelia woke late, sunlight spilling across the corner of her small flat. The city outside hummed faintly — someone walking a dog, a car door closing, church bells far away.
For the first time in a week, she was alone.
She lay there for a while, trying to sort through the memories of New York: the skyline, the laughter, the late dinners, the feeling of being seen. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him — the way he'd smiled when she fell asleep on the plane, the way he'd looked at her as if the world had stopped moving.
But this was Manchester, not Manhattan.
And Alexander Harrington was her boss again.
She got up, made coffee, and stood by the window in her oversized sweater, staring at the drizzle on the glass. For a few minutes, she let herself feel it — the confusion, the longing, the fear of losing something she never really had. Then she exhaled, grabbed her phone, and texted her friend.
Amelia: Are you free today?
Emma: Always. You sound like you need girl time.
Amelia: You have no idea.
Emma: Lunch. My treat. Then shopping. I'm rescuing you.
The café was one of those tucked-away places that smelled of vanilla and fresh bread.
Emma was already there when Amelia arrived — blonde curls, bright eyes, the kind of energy that turned heads.
"Well, well," Emma said, grinning as Amelia sat down. "You come back from New York looking like someone in a perfume advert. Don't tell me there wasn't a man."
Amelia laughed, nearly spilling her tea. "There was a conference. That's all."
"Mmm. Conferences don't usually make people blush when they talk about them."
"Emma…"
"Alright, fine." Emma leaned forward, conspiratorial. "But something happened. I can tell."
Amelia hesitated. She hadn't planned to talk about it — not yet, maybe not ever — but Emma's expression was all warmth and mischief, the kind of friendship that didn't need disguises.
"He's… complicated," Amelia admitted softly. "Older. Brilliant. Impossible. And my boss."
Emma's eyebrows shot up. "Oh." Then, quieter: "And you like him."
Amelia didn't answer, but the look in her eyes was enough.
"Oh, sweetheart." Emma sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "That's dangerous territory."
"I know," Amelia said, voice small. "But it doesn't feel wrong. Just… impossible."
Emma smiled, half teasing, half tender. "Then we're definitely going shopping. Retail therapy before emotional chaos."
They spent the afternoon wandering through the shops — laughter echoing through changing rooms, the scent of new perfume, the rustle of paper bags.
Amelia bought a cream blouse she didn't need and a pair of shoes she couldn't justify.
Emma insisted she buy both. "You're too beautiful to keep hiding behind work clothes," she declared. "Trust me, something good is coming."
By the time they parted at dusk, the city was glowing under streetlamps. Amelia walked home with her shopping bags, feeling lighter, though not for long.
Back in her flat, she hung the blouse carefully on the wardrobe door, turned off her phone, and stood in silence. The week ahead loomed large and uncertain.
She poured herself a glass of wine, curled up on the sofa, and whispered into the quiet,
"Get it together, Amelia."
But her mind betrayed her — replaying his voice, his touch, the way he'd said Don't pretend this didn't happen.
She smiled to herself, just once, before sleep found her.
Across the city, Alexander was restless.
His apartment overlooked the canal — floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, the view of a skyline that had never felt more empty.
He'd spent the morning reading through reports he couldn't absorb, making coffee he didn't finish, scrolling through his calendar as though meetings could distract him from memory.
But the moments came anyway — her laughter in the rain, the way she'd looked at him in that half-dark hotel room, the quiet way she said goodnight.
At noon he tried to go for a run. He made it three blocks before stopping under an overpass, the rain seeping through his shirt. The city smelled like wet pavement and regret.
He thought of calling her — no, he couldn't. Not yet. Not when they'd promised to act normal.
Still, he caught himself drafting an email later that afternoon:
Hope you're resting after the flight. See you tomorrow.
He deleted it before sending.
Dinner was silent, just the sound of the rain ticking against the glass. He poured a glass of red wine and sat down at the piano — the one thing in the apartment that didn't belong to work. His fingers found a melody he didn't recognise, low and hesitant, almost like a question.
He stopped halfway through and stared out the window. Somewhere out there, she was probably asleep by now, her hair falling across her pillow the way it had on the plane.
He smiled faintly. "Get it together, Harrington," he muttered.
But when he finally went to bed, he left the light on.
Just in case the morning came too soon.