The scent of lemon verbena floated through the apartment, soft and sharp, as Clara wiped the edge of the counter one last time.
Julian had said he would be home by eight.
It was now nearly nine.
The clock ticked steadily, its rhythm far too loud in the otherwise hushed space. Her fingers twitched over the hem of her cardigan as she moved to the windows. The city lights blinked below, and the wind pressed against the glass like it, too, was waiting for something.
Clara wasn't worried.
Not exactly.
But something had shifted in the past few days. A stillness between them that wasn't cold, but cautious. Like they were both standing at the edge of something they had no name for.
Julian had been more attentive, yes. He left her a warm scarf by the coat rack before she left for a doctor's appointment. He bought her mother's favorite imported teas without being asked. He sat closer during dinner. He listened more.
But he also hadn't kissed her.
Not once.
Not even a brush of lips on the forehead. Not a hand held too long. Just… proximity. And restraint.
It was starting to gnaw at her.
Clara moved to the living room, where her sketchpad lay abandoned. She had been trying to work on a storybook concept again, but every character she drew looked like they were waiting for someone who never arrived.
The lock turned.
She straightened immediately.
Julian stepped inside, loosened tie, damp collar, tired eyes. He paused when he saw her by the window, then offered a faint nod.
"You're late," she said, not accusing. Just… aware.
He looked at the clock, then back at her. "There was a board call that overran. One of the regional offices flagged a leak."
"A leak?"
"Internal." He pulled off his coat. "Nothing urgent. But it required cleaning up."
She folded her arms, but not in defense. More like she needed to hold herself together.
"You could've texted."
He blinked. Then frowned faintly, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "You're right. I should have."
Silence settled again, and this time it had edges.
Clara turned away before she said something petty. She hated that part of her—the part that wanted more but didn't want to beg for it. The part that expected intimacy like a flower expects sunlight, and flinched when it was met with shade.
Behind her, Julian's voice came softer than expected.
"Did something happen today?"
Clara hesitated.
Then nodded once.
"I got a call from an unknown number. I didn't answer. They texted instead. Said they had photos."
Julian's entire posture changed. He stilled, jaw tensing slightly.
"What kind of photos?"
Clara turned toward him again, slower this time.
"They didn't say. Just… that I should be careful. That not everyone wants us together."
Julian didn't speak for a moment. Then he walked across the room and stopped a few feet away from her. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a scalpel.
"Did they mention names?"
She shook her head. "No. Just hinted. Said I should know my place before the papers get involved."
Julian's expression shifted into something unreadable. Not rage. Not fear. Something colder.
"I'll handle it."
"Julian—"
"No one threatens you."
His words weren't loud, but they left no room for argument. His hands were still at his sides, but his presence felt suddenly... larger. Like a storm held back by sheer force of will.
Clara exhaled slowly. "I don't want you to bury this under lawyers and settlements. I want to know who's behind it."
"You will," he said. "Soon."
Another pause.
Then he added, more gently this time, "I promise."
And for some reason, that promise made her want to cry.
Not because she doubted it.
But because for the first time, it sounded like he meant it for more than just her safety.
He meant it for her.
For them.
For the fragile, slowly forming thing neither of them had dared to name yet.
Later that night, Clara couldn't sleep.
She lay on her side, facing the window, watching the curtain sway gently in the draft. The sheets beneath her felt too crisp, too cold, like they didn't belong to her body anymore. Julian was still in his home office down the hall. She had heard the soft creak of the door earlier, the sound of hushed phone calls, and then silence.
He had not come to bed.
Not yet.
She wasn't sure if he would.
Clara sat up slowly, pulled a robe around her shoulders, and padded down the hallway barefoot. The corridor lights were dim, casting long shadows along the marble floor. His office door was slightly ajar.
She paused.
Inside, Julian sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar loose. He was staring at a screen, unreadable, unmoving. The only light came from the glow of his laptop, casting faint silver across his features.
His eyes flicked up when she knocked softly.
"You should be sleeping," he said.
"I could say the same about you."
He closed the laptop but didn't stand.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then Clara stepped into the room. "You didn't tell me everything earlier, did you?"
Julian leaned back slightly. "No."
"I want to know."
He hesitated. Not because he didn't want to answer, but because he was deciding how much to give.
"There's been chatter," he said finally. "Someone's leaking information to the press. Not just about me. About us."
"Us?"
He nodded once. "Photos of the night we were at the clinic. A tip-off that you're pregnant. A marriage that's not quite… traditional."
Clara felt her fingers curl around the robe's tie.
"Is this why you've been quiet lately?"
"Partly."
"And the other part?"
He looked at her, then stood slowly. The distance between them felt fragile.
"The other part is that I don't know how to be angry without scaring you. And I don't know how to protect you without hurting someone."
"You won't scare me," she said.
His jaw tightened. "You say that now."
Clara stepped closer.
"Julian, I've seen your worst. The night I told you I was pregnant, you barely flinched. You tried to act like it was just logistics. And yet… you learned how I like my tea. You drive me to my mother's appointments when I'm tired. You remember things I don't even say out loud."
He looked at her, the tension in his shoulders sharp and stubborn.
"You think those things make up for everything else?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "But they mean you care. Even if you don't know how to show it yet."
Julian moved before she could say anything else.
One step.
Then another.
Then she was in his arms.
It wasn't a kiss.
Not yet.
Just warmth. Contact. A silent surrender.
She pressed her forehead against his chest and felt his heartbeat, steady but uneven. One hand slid into her hair, gentle, like he was still afraid she might vanish.
"I can't lose you," he murmured. "Not when I haven't even figured out how to keep you properly."
Clara pulled back just enough to look at him.
"Then don't keep me in the dark. Let me stand beside you, not behind you."
He stared at her.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
The office felt warmer somehow. Like something had cracked open. Not in a dramatic way. Not in fireworks or declarations.
But in the way he kissed her temple.
Soft.
Unhurried.
And in the way he whispered, "Stay with me tonight. Not just in the same room. Here."
Clara leaned into him fully, eyes closing.
"I was never planning to leave."
And outside, far beyond the glass walls of the apartment, someone else was watching.
Their phone blinked once with a notification.
New photo received.
Julian Blackwell. Clara Wynter. Living room. Intimate angle.
The unnamed contact smiled.
Soon.
Very soon.