The days that followed slipped into a gentle rhythm neither of them named, but both felt.
Late nights, when the house had gone quiet and Richard lay awake staring at the ceiling, his phone would light up beside him.
Are you asleep?
He never slept before he could talk to her. Hear her voice. Hear how her day was.
Sometimes she called first. Sometimes he did. There was no pattern to it, only a mutual understanding that these hours belonged to them. Their voices stayed low, intimate without trying to be. They spoke as if the dark itself was listening.
Their calls were unhurried, voices lowered as if they shared a secret in the dark. They spoke about small things — what they had eaten, something amusing Chloe had said, the way the river looked at dusk.
Gradually, the conversations deepened without either of them quite noticing the shift.
They spoke of the years when they had done what was required rather than what was wanted. Richard spoke carefully about the loneliness that had crept into his marriage long before it ended, how silence could feel louder than arguments. Helene spoke of the years after loss, how time did not heal so much as teach you to carry on despite your heart being broken.
"I thought I was finished," she admitted one night, her voice quiet, but steady.
"Not sad. Just… done. Content to be useful and taking care of Isabelle and her children, nothing more."
"And now?" he asked, not pressing, only curious.
"Now I realise I still want things," she said after a pause. "That was something I hadn't expected."
He understood that more than he could easily say.
They spoke of ageing bodies, too, with gentle honesty. Of knees that ached in the cold. Of waking earlier than they used to. Of how the mirror sometimes surprised them. There was humour in it, a shared recognition that time had moved forward regardless of their readiness.
Richard found himself wanting more of her in a way that surprised him with its steadiness. Not urgency. Not hunger. A slow, persistent pull. A sense of alignment. But he remained careful, conscious of how easily want could tip into pressure.
If she grew quiet, he didn't fill the space.
If she hesitated, he left space for her to come back in her own time.
She noticed.
"You're very patient," she said once, her voice softened by something like wonder.
"I wasn't always," he replied honestly. "I've learned to be." Then, lighter, "Though I can't promise I enjoy it all the time."
Her laugh, shy and warm, stayed with him as he fell asleep.
Mornings brought their own quieter rituals. Messages exchanged while kettles boiled and coats were pulled on.
Good luck with your meetings today.
Did you sleep at all?
The frost is terrible. Wear something warm today.
They were small things. Ordinary things. And yet they threaded through their days like quiet light.
He teased her gently, never unkind.
I look forward to these messages more than my coffee.
She replied a few minutes later.
That seems irresponsible.
A successful man should not depend on a woman for caffeine replacement.
Not just any woman, he wrote back.
She sent a smiling emoji, then:
You make it very easy to smile, Richard.
That stayed with him all day.
By the end of the week, asking to see her again felt natural. Not a declaration. Not a test. Simply an extension of what was already there.
"I would like that," she said, without hesitation. Then, softer, "Very much."
They settled on dinner. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Nothing extravagant.
Richard booked a table and found himself looking forward to it as if he was going on holiday. He told himself not to crowd her. But the anticipation sat in him, gentle and insistent, like a held breath.
Then, a few hours before he was due to pick her up for their dinner date, his phone rang.
Her name lit up on the screen.
"Helene?"
Her voice was apologetic before she'd even finished saying his name.
"Richard, I'm so sorry," she said. "I won't be able to make it tonight."
The disappointment flickered through him — brief, sharp — and he let it pass without letting it touch his voice.
"What's happened?" he asked calmly.
"Becca's unwell," she explained. "Quite suddenly. Fever, vomiting. Isabelle is with her, but she's exhausted, and Luke needs looking after. Robert's taking care of Michael, but… I don't want to leave them. Not like this."
There was a pause, filled with worry rather than uncertainty.
"Of course," Richard said gently. "You don't need to apologise."
"I hate cancelling," she added quietly. "Especially when I was looking forward to seeing you."
Something warm eased the edge of his disappointment.
"So was I," he said. "But I admire you for your love for them."
"You don't mind?" she asked, and he could hear the hope tucked into the question.
"Not at all," he replied. "I understand that this is a priority. I'd rather you be where you feel you should be."
She exhaled, relief softening her voice.
"Thank you. You're very kind."
"I'll survive," he added lightly. "Though I reserve the right to miss you."
Her laugh came softly, threaded with affection.
"I think I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
They didn't rush to hang up. They spoke for a few more minutes — about Becca, about Luke, about nothing in particular — until she said she should go.
"I'll call you later," she said.
"I'll look forward to it."
That night, after Becca and Michael were finally settled and the house quieted again, her call came.
She sounded tired. He could hear it beneath her warmth.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Sleeping," Helene replied. "At last. Luke's curled up on the sofa with a blanket and insists he's not tired. He'll be asleep in five minutes."
Richard smiled, picturing it.
"And you?"
"I'm alright," she said. "Just… a little drained."
He wished, suddenly and acutely, that he could make her tea, ease the weight from her shoulders. He didn't say that.
"Make sure you rest, too," he said instead.
"Yes, sir," she teased gently.
They spoke until her voice softened with fatigue. When she finally said goodnight, there was a pause — just a second — before she added, "Thank you for understanding."
"Always," he said.
After the call ended, Richard lay awake longer than usual, staring into the dark, feeling the quiet ache of wanting without impatience. Wanting, and choosing to wait.
In the morning, there were a couple of messages waiting for him from Helene.
Good morning.
Becca's feeling better today. Still tired, but the fever's gone.
Thank you again for being so understanding. I hope you have a good day.
He smiled as he typed his reply.
I'm glad to hear it.
Take care of yourself today.
And when the time is right, I'll take you to dinner properly.
Her response came quickly.
I'm looking forward to it.
The thought stayed with him as he started his day — not as longing that unsettled him, but as something steady and quietly hopeful.
Something worth waiting for.