Morning didn't soften anything.
If anything, daylight made the truth sharper—less romantic, more real. Annabel woke with the familiar weight in her chest, except now it had a name. Last night hadn't been a misunderstanding. It had been clear.
She found Richard in the kitchen again. Some things never changed.
He looked up, hesitant, like someone approaching a conversation they already knew the outcome of. There was no small talk this time. No polite buffer.
"We can't pretend," he said.
Annabel set her cup down carefully. Her hands were steady. She felt strangely calm—like she'd crossed an internal threshold already.
"I'm done pretending," she replied.
That was the moment.
Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just two people choosing honesty over safety.
They sat across from each other, knees almost touching. Richard spoke first, voice low but resolved.
"I held back because I thought restraint made me responsible," he said. "But I think it just made me afraid."
Annabel met his gaze. No flinching. No retreat.
"I held back because I thought loving quietly meant loving correctly," she said. "Turns out, it just meant loving alone."
Silence followed—but it wasn't avoidance anymore. It was consent. Emotional alignment. A mutual decision to step forward without fully knowing the terrain.
Richard reached for her hand this time and didn't stop himself.
It wasn't urgent. It wasn't desperate. It was intentional—fingers lacing, warmth spreading, years of discipline unravelling in one simple act.
Annabel felt it then: the difference between longing and choice.
"This changes things," Richard said.
"Yes," she agreed. "That's the point."
They talked—really talked. About timing. About consequences. About how easily this could complicate everything and how pretending it didn't exist already had.
No fantasy. No shortcuts. Just truth in its rawest form.
When he leaned in, he paused—one last checkpoint.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She didn't.
The kiss was soft, restrained even now, like they were still learning how to be bold without being reckless. It carried years of silence, restraint, and missed chances—but also something new: permission.
When they pulled apart, nothing felt resolved.
But nothing felt hidden anymore either.
They stood there, hand in hand, aware that crossing the line hadn't simplified their lives.