Chapter 7 — THE BRIDGE AGAIN
Elaris City glimmered beneath the soft hush of twilight, lights blooming one by one across the skyline like fireflies awakening. The air was cool, scented faintly with sea salt and night flowers.
Down by the Glass Bridge, the river whispered against stone, reflecting ribbons of gold and silver. It was the kind of night when the city felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
And there she was, Cathy Duke, her sketchbook tucked under one arm, walking slowly across the bridge that had unknowingly become their place.
Her steps were quiet. She loved this hour, when the crowd thinned, and only the echoes of passing footsteps remained. The soundless rhythm of her heart matched the gentle sway of the river below.
She reached the middle of the bridge and stopped, looking out over the water. The reflections shimmered like scattered dreams.
Then she felt it, that same awareness that always preceded him. A pulse, a shift in the air, the faintest warmth that had nothing to do with weather.
When she turned, Adrian was there.
He leaned lightly against the railing, the faintest smile on his lips. The lamplight caught his features, sharp, thoughtful, softened by something unspoken.
“You always find your way back here,” he said, voice low but steady.
Cathy smiled, pulling out her notepad.
It’s peaceful here.
He stepped closer, resting his arms on the railing beside her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s the only place in this city that doesn’t ask questions.”
She tilted her head, curious.
He looked out over the water. “Everything else does. People want to know what you do, what you earn, who you are. But the bridge… it just lets you exist.”
She smiled faintly, then wrote:
Maybe that’s why I like it too.
He looked at her then, really looked, as if trying to read something in her silence that even she couldn’t name.
A breeze stirred between them, carrying the soft rustle of leaves. Adrian noticed she was holding her sketchbook again.
“Drawing tonight?” he asked.
She nodded and opened it, flipping through the pages, bridges, flowers, the café corner, and finally, sketches of him.
Adrian chuckled softly. “You make me look better than I am.”
Cathy signed with a shy smile: I only draw truth.
He laughed quietly. “Then maybe I’ve been seeing myself wrong all this time.”
She looked at him with gentle confusion.
He hesitated, fingers tightening on the railing. “There are… parts of my life that don’t match the man you see here,” he said finally. “Parts I wish I could erase.”
Cathy shook her head firmly, writing quickly:
You don’t have to erase them. Just learn to paint over them.
He stared at the words, stunned by how easily she spoke to wounds she’d never seen.
Her pen moved again.
We all have broken pieces. That’s how the light gets in.
Adrian smiled faintly — that rare, unguarded smile she’d come to adore. “You always say the right thing,” he murmured. “How do you do that without words?”
She signed softly: Because I listen.
For a heartbeat, something inside him shifted, something old, heavy, quiet.
He took a step closer, close enough that the lamplight framed her face. “You make me want to listen too,” he whispered.
Their eyes met, and in that silence, something deeper than conversation passed between them.
Minutes turned into an hour as they lingered there, talking through written notes and half-smiles. Cathy told him, in simple phrases, about her mother, her art, the way she found peace in flowers and sketches. Adrian shared bits of his past, nothing too revealing, but enough for her to see the loneliness beneath his calm.
When the wind grew colder, he offered her his coat.
She hesitated but accepted it, the fabric warm with his scent, rain, cedar, and something faintly metallic, like memory.
He watched her wrap it around herself, smiling softly. “Looks better on you.”
She rolled her eyes playfully, scribbling on the notepad:
You say that to everyone?
“Only to people who steal my thoughts,” he replied.
That made her laugh, a silent, glowing laugh that reached her eyes.
As midnight neared, the city grew still again. A distant ferry horn echoed over the water.
Adrian exhaled slowly, leaning against the railing once more. “You know, Cathy… when I first met you, I thought you were fragile.”
Her brows lifted.
“But you’re not,” he continued. “You’re quiet, yes, but strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve met.”
She looked down, writing quickly:
Silence doesn’t mean weakness.
“No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t. But the world often thinks it does.”
She paused, then signed: You don’t.
He smiled. “No. I never did.”
They walked together toward the far end of the bridge. The lamps behind them cast long, golden trails on the water. When they reached the last arch, Cathy stopped, turning to him.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small folded paper, one of her sketches — and handed it to him.
He unfolded it. It was the bridge itself, drawn in pencil and faint watercolor. Two figures stood in the center, one holding an umbrella, the other reaching out a hand.
Underneath, she had written in neat script:
Some connections don’t need sound. Just presence.
Adrian swallowed hard, touched beyond words. “You always find a way to say what I can’t.”
She smiled, her fingers moving gracefully in the dim light: That’s what silence is for.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then whispered, almost to himself, “You really are the quietest storm I’ve ever met.”
And for the first time, she blushed deeply, warmth blooming in her chest.
When they finally parted that night, the bridge behind them gleamed like a thread of glass between two souls learning to speak in their own language.
Neither of them noticed the figure watching from the opposite end of the bridge... Marcus Hale, Adrian’s project partner.
His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between curiosity and warning.
Because he, unlike Cathy, knew exactly who Adrian Rivers truly was.
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