He did not move away.
Neither did she.
They walked on in silence, and the silence had changed—no longer easy, but charged, threaded with everything left unsaid.
When they emerged from the woods, Rovewood Hall rose before them, its windows beginning to glow against the gathering dusk. The sight ought to have broken whatever held them—to have reminded them of distance, of rank, of consequence.
It did not.
“Thank you,” Lorraine said quietly, as they reached the fork in the path. “For the walk. For the conversation.”
“And you,” he said. “For listening.”
He turned to her fully. The space between them felt at once too wide and dangerously narrow.
“Lorraine, I—”
“Don’t.” She lifted a hand, stopping him. There was strain in her expression now. “Whatever you are about to say—don’t. Not yet.”
He stilled.
“We must be careful,” she said, more steadily. “We must think.”
“I have done nothing but think for four years. I am tired of it.”
“Then think a little longer.” A faint, sad smile touched her mouth. “For both our sakes. I cannot afford recklessness, Dominic. And you cannot afford… to be unkind. So we must be careful. Even if it is the last thing we wish to be.”
He knew she was right.
The distance between them was not imagined. If he crossed it without thought, she would bear the greater cost.
“Careful,” he repeated. The word sat ill with him. “Yes. I suppose that’s wise.”
“It is not what I want,” she said softly. “But it is what must be.”
She turned and walked toward the servants’ entrance, her cloak shifting with her stride. At the door, she paused and looked back—one long glance, quiet and unmistakable.
Then she was gone.
Dominic remained where he was, the cold pressing in, his arm still faintly warm where it had brushed against hers.
Careful. Wise.
He felt neither.
He felt like a man standing at the edge of something he could not name, knowing the fall would change everything—and unable to step back.
He went inside.
The whisky waited for him. He poured a measure, watched the amber catch the light—and then tipped it into the grate, untouched.
Numbness no longer held any appeal.
He wanted to feel it. All of it—the fear, the want, the dangerous, impossible hope that had taken hold despite him.
He wanted her.
And for the first time in four years, wanting something did not feel like weakness. It felt like the beginning of something perilously close to being alive.
