Elena's pulse stuttered as she turned toward the sound of footsteps. The man from earlier — the driver — stood at the edge of the garden path, his silhouette framed by the faint porch light. Even in the dim glow, she noticed the tall, straight lines of his frame and the precise way he carried himself, as though stillness itself were disciplined.
"You really shouldn't wander off alone," he said, voice calm but edged with amusement.
She folded her arms, trying to calm her nerves down, struggling to keep a poker face. "And you shouldn't follow people," she replied in a weak voice.
Why is he here???
As if hearing her thoughts, he replied easily, "I wasn't following you. Just needed some air. Happens to be the same garden."
Yeah right. He happens to be in a private residence to get some fresh air. Really?
She raised an eyebrow. "Coincidence, huh?" She tried to play along, curious to know why he was really here.
"Unless you believe in fate." He chuckled lightly, teasing.
"I don't."
"Good," he said, stepping closer. "Because fate doesn't usually limp."
Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"
He gestured to her ankle with mock solemnity. "You're favoring it. Sprain?"
"None of your business." She replied, annoyed at his constant teasing.
He smiled, unbothered. "You're welcome, by the way."
"For what?"
"Stopping before you become roadkill."
"So you came here to take a round of applause from me? I thanked you twice already!" Her eyes glistened in anger.
"And by the way, you should really work on your timing. Honking might've helped."
"I did," he said, amused. "You were too busy… daydreaming?"
Her face flamed. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous habit," he teased. "Thinking in traffic."
Before she could retort, a familiar voice called from inside: "Nathan Darling, is it you outside?"
Her heart tripped. Nathan?
He turned toward the doorway, sighing lightly. "Coming, Mom!"
Judith's silhouette appeared against the warm light, elegant and expectant.
Elena's mind spun.
Nathan Brown. The Browns' son. The one who was supposed to join dinner later.
He looked back and winked at her, a faint smile curving his lips. "Guess I'm late to the party."
She stood frozen. "You're… not the driver?"
He grinned. "Not exactly. The driver works for me."
And with that, he walked past her — tall and composed, his dark brown hair perfectly in place. The porch light skimmed over smooth cheekbones and a clean-cut jaw lending him elegance — too polished for someone who had just been teasing her moments ago.
No, no, no. This can't be happening, she thought, watching him disappear inside. He's seen me make a fool of myself… and now he's Nathan Brown.
Mortification hit like a punch.
---
When she stepped back into the house, laughter and conversation buzzed faintly through the hall. Her father's voice carried from the dining room — animated, full of business talk.
David Hamilton sat at the table beside Robert, the two men surrounded by coffee cups and dessert plates.
"Your new furniture line has been an excellent addition to our catalogue," her father was saying. "Clients love the craftsmanship — especially the reclaimed oak collection."
Robert nodded, visibly pleased. "Glad to hear that. We've been sourcing the wood from Italian mills — it's costly but worth it. And you've managed the UK distribution flawlessly."
At the far end of the room, Judith and her mother sat on the cream sofa near the fireplace. Judith's laugh rose above the soft murmur of conversation — polished, practiced, the kind that filled the space without warmth.
Claire and Nick were talking in the kitchen — she could hear their voices but not the words.
Elena hovered by the doorway, unsure where to go.
Then her eyes caught Nathan. He'd taken the empty seat beside his father, still in his crisp shirt and rolled-up sleeves. The white fabric clung lightly across his shoulders; there was an effortless precision to the way he sat — straight spine, one hand resting near his glass, movements measured, almost restrained.
He looked utterly composed — the kind of person who never seemed out of place anywhere. The light from the chandelier burnished the brown in his hair and cast faint shadows that sharpened the angles of his face. His pale-blue eyes, calm and unreadable, flicked between the conversation and his glass with quiet assurance.
Her pulse fluttered again before she scolded herself for it.
Get a grip, Elena!
He looked up just then — and their eyes met, for a second too long. Something in his gaze held her still — polite on the surface, but with a depth that unsettled her.
He tilted his head slightly, a knowing half-smile playing on his lips. It was the same restrained smile that came easily to people raised on etiquette and charm; yet when directed at her, it felt far too… personal.
She quickly looked away and headed toward the stairs.
She couldn't bear the mortification.
If I stay there, he'll tell everyone what happened earlier…
---
Later that night, the house had gone still.
Elena sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, papers scattered around her. The glow of the screen painted soft blue shadows on her face. Her project — half-finished, columns of numbers glaring back at her — was due in less than a day.
She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Just a few more edits," she muttered, though her brain felt like cotton.
By 3 a.m., exhaustion crept in. Her stomach grumbled.
Fine. Food first, panic later.
She slipped on her cardigan and crept downstairs, careful to avoid the step that creaked.
The kitchen was dark, but she could make out a figure in the dim moonlight coming from the window.
Someone is here.
Just as she stepped back, trying to be as quiet as possible, the figure moved and phone light cut through the dark.
Nathan sat at the counter, barefoot, eating ice cream straight from the tub. Even in the half-light, she noticed how composed he looked — sleeves rolled again, hair slightly tousled now, a trace of tiredness softening his perfect lines.
He looked at her, a hint of surprise crossing his face before a smile followed. "Couldn't sleep?" he whispered.
"I, uh…" She pointed vaguely at the fridge. "Midnight snack."
"At three?" He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Don't judge me."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Want some?"
She eyed the spoon in his hand. "You're eating straight from the tub. What happened to Mr Perfect's manners?"
He ignored her teasing and slid a clean spoon across the counter. "I'm a generous man."
She hesitated — then took it. "You're impossible."
"That's one word for charming."
She tried not to laugh and failed. "You haven't changed."
His brows lifted. "So you do remember me."
"I remember a boy who used to steal my popsicles in summer."
He leaned back, smirking. "Correction — we shared them. You were just bad at math."
"Still am," she said under her breath.
He grinned. "At least you're consistent."
Her heart skipped a beat looking at his beautiful smile. Up close, she saw faint laugh lines near his eyes — signs of warmth that undercut his perfect composure.
For a moment, the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was… familiar.
Then she remembered the accident and stiffened. "Hey… about earlier—"
He raised an eyebrow, taking another bite of ice cream.
"Could we, um… maybe not mention it? The whole falling-on-the-road thing?"
He gave a mock-serious nod. "Your secret's safe with me."
God, he is cute… no, freakishly handsome.
"Promise?" she asked.
He leaned forward slightly. "Trust me?"
Trust him?
Something in his tone made her pulse quicken again.
She mumbled, "I-uh-okay," suddenly very interested in her spoon.
He finally pushed the ice cream away. "You know, you're different from how I remember."
"Different how?"
He shrugged. "Quieter, maybe. Or maybe I just didn't notice before. And more beautiful indeed!" He examined her from close distance and tucked stray strands behind her ear so he could see her better..
His fingers lingered, brushing her cheek.
Her heart pounded.
"Let's go for a stroll outside, shall we?" he said, getting up from the stool and walking toward the main door.
She sat there dumbfounded, looking at his back. Even the simple act of walking away carried a poised, effortless grace — as if posture came to him as naturally as breathing.
"Come on! It's gonna be a small one."
She hesitated but followed.
---
The night was cool, the garden bathed in silver moonlight. Elena's steps were careful, her ankle protesting, while Nathan moved beside her with effortless confidence. The moonlight traced his profile — clean lines, composed mouth, that calm precision again — and she wondered if he ever looked untidy.
"I didn't really expect to come back here," Nathan said, his voice low, thoughtful. "Feels… smaller than I remember."
"It's not smaller," Elena said softly, keeping her gaze on the path. "You just grew up."
He glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe. Or maybe we all just forget what it felt like to fit."
Her pulse fluttered. It was a simple statement, but maybe the meaning was deep.
They walked in silence for a moment, the faint scent of damp earth wrapping around them.
"You remember the treehouse?" she asked quietly.
"Of course," he said, chuckling.
They shared old memories, laughter, and quiet looks that lingered too long. Every time he smiled, the polished calm slipped a little, revealing something warmer underneath — something she hadn't expected to find behind all that refinement.
---
Sleep refused to come. Her mind was restless. Nathan's voice echoed in her thoughts, his touch still warm on her skin. She wasn't sure what this was between them — but …
It was dangerous.
thrilling, and impossible to ignore…
Her mind replayed every moment of their conversation, and she couldn't help but notice:
His gentle voice.
His honest chat.
His playful humour.
And the list continued…