Chapter 8 — FIRST TOUCH
The next morning arrived dressed in sunlight and birdsong. The world outside Cathy Duke’s small apartment shimmered — rooftops kissed by light, the faint hum of traffic in the distance. But inside, her world felt different.
She sat by the window, her sketchbook open on her lap. Last night’s memory — the bridge, Adrian’s coat, his voice saying “You’re not fragile” — replayed like a melody she didn’t want to end.
Her fingers brushed the fabric still draped over her chair — his coat, heavy and warm, smelling faintly of cedar and rain. She traced the lining absentmindedly, her heart fluttering with something she couldn’t name.
She’d spent so long surrounded by silence — a world of gestures, smiles, and written words — that she had learned to read emotion in textures, light, and space. But Adrian’s presence felt different. It didn’t just fill the silence; it gave it meaning.
By afternoon, the café where she worked was alive with soft chatter and clinking cups. The place was tucked along Elaris Street, its windows framed with flowers and fairy lights.
Cathy moved gracefully between tables, her steps light, her smile gentle. She didn’t need words here — her kindness did the talking. The regulars adored her quiet warmth; they always said she made peace feel visible.
She was clearing a table when the bell above the door chimed.
Her heart skipped.
Adrian Rivers stood at the entrance, sunlight catching in his dark hair, his tie slightly loosened. He looked out of place among the casual morning crowd — too sharp, too polished — yet somehow he belonged, as if drawn there by the same invisible thread that had always connected them.
When he saw her, he smiled, the kind that reached his eyes.
Cathy’s lips curved into a small, startled smile. She wiped her hands quickly and approached.
He lifted a small paper bag. “Peace offering,” he said softly. “From the bakery down the street.”
She tilted her head, amused, and took the bag. Inside were croissants — her favorite — and a note in his handwriting:
Because the best mornings deserve quiet company.
She looked up at him, warmth spreading through her chest. Then, without a word, she gestured toward a corner table by the window.
He nodded and followed her there.
They sat facing each other, sunlight spilling across the table. Cathy placed her notepad down.
Didn’t expect to see you here today.
“I was nearby,” he said, sipping his coffee. “And I thought— maybe I owed you a better morning than last night’s goodbye.”
She smiled faintly, writing:
You don’t owe me anything.
“I know,” he said softly. “But I wanted to.”
Their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, the noise around them disappeared — the café fading into the hush between two people learning each other’s rhythm.
He watched her sketch idly while they talked — small flowers, a steaming cup, and the outline of a bridge.
“You always draw things that make people feel calm,” Adrian murmured.
She glanced up, then wrote:
Maybe because I spent years craving calm.
He nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his gaze. “Did someone take it from you?”
She hesitated. Then she wrote a single word:
Loss.
He didn’t press. He simply said, “Then I’m glad you found it again.”
Cathy looked at him — not with pity, but gratitude. Most people asked questions that tore open wounds. Adrian’s words, instead, closed them gently.
When she finished her shift, Adrian was still there, reading a document but occasionally glancing her way. When she stepped out into the street, he followed.
The sky was painted with early evening hues — lavender, gold, and soft blue.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked.
She nodded.
They moved side by side through the narrow streets. The city buzzed faintly in the distance — horns, laughter, faint music from a street performer — but around them, it felt quiet. Peaceful.
Halfway home, a soft drizzle began. Cathy paused, tilting her face up to the rain. Adrian immediately shrugged off his blazer, holding it over her head.
She laughed silently, shaking her head.
He smiled. “You can’t argue with me if you don’t talk.”
She rolled her eyes, then wrote quickly:
You’re impossible.
He grinned. “And yet you’re still walking beside me.”
By the time they reached her apartment gate, the rain had softened to a mist. They stopped beneath a streetlamp, golden light pooling around them.
Adrian hesitated, then spoke quietly. “You know, Cathy… I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by noise. Meetings, events, cameras. But with you—”
He stopped, searching her eyes.
“—it’s the first time silence feels like peace, not punishment.”
Her throat tightened. She reached for her notepad, but then stopped. Instead, she lifted her hand and wrote something with her finger on his palm — slowly, deliberately.
He looked down, trying to read the invisible motion. His breath caught as he realized the letters spelled:
Thank you.
Something in his chest ached — a deep, unexpected warmth.
“Cathy,” he murmured, voice low, “you don’t have to thank me for anything.”
She met his gaze — eyes soft, shimmering. Then, for the first time, she reached out and touched his face.
It was a small gesture — her fingertips barely grazing his jaw — but it carried the weight of everything she couldn’t say.
Adrian froze. The world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.
Her hand trembled slightly, then dropped — embarrassed, unsure. But before she could step back, his hand rose and gently caught hers.
Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.
The drizzle continued around them, silver and quiet. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled faintly, like the heartbeat of the city itself.
He held her hand for just a moment longer — long enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin, the steadiness in his touch.
Then, softly, he said, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Cathy smiled, her cheeks flushed, eyes glimmering with emotions she couldn’t voice.
She signed slowly, gracefully: Maybe I do.
He laughed under his breath — that quiet, unguarded laugh that always made her chest feel lighter.
And in that laughter, the air between them shifted — tender, fragile, and full of possibility.
When she finally stepped inside her apartment, Cathy leaned against the door, pressing a hand to her heart.
The silence felt different now — not empty, but full.
Outside, Adrian lingered under the streetlight for a long moment, looking up at her window.
In his pocket, he still held the paper she’d given him the night before — the sketch of two figures on the bridge. He unfolded it again, tracing the words:
Some connections don’t need sound. Just presence.
He exhaled slowly. “You’re right, Cathy,” he whispered. “But what if presence isn’t enough?”
Because what she didn’t know — not yet — was that Adrian’s quiet life was built on secrets.
And one of those secrets had her name written all over it.
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