The cabin was quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire Adrian had lit in the stone hearth. Evelyn sat curled on the couch, a blanket draped over her shoulders as she stared into the flames. The flickering light danced across her face, casting shadows that mirrored the turmoil in her heart.
Adrian entered the room, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He placed one on the table in front of her before settling into the armchair across from her. The silence between them was comfortable yet charged, the weight of the evening's events hanging heavily in the air.
"Thanks," Evelyn murmured, wrapping her hands around the mug.
Adrian gave a small nod, his eyes flicking to the faint cut on her cheek. She had insisted it was nothing, but he hadn't missed the way her hand occasionally brushed it, as if grounding herself.
"You should rest," he said after a long pause.
Evelyn glanced at him, a tired smile tugging at her lips. "I doubt I'll be able to sleep after... all this."
Adrian leaned back, his gaze steady. "You've been through worse, haven't you?"
Evelyn froze for a moment, her fingers tightening around the mug. "That's one way to put it," she said softly, her voice laced with a mixture of bitterness and melancholy.
Adrian didn't push, sensing the fragility in her tone. Instead, he let the silence stretch, giving her the space to continue if she chose.
After a moment, Evelyn set her mug down and shifted slightly, the blanket slipping from her shoulder. Adrian's eyes caught on a faint, jagged scar that ran along her collarbone, partially hidden by her blouse.
She noticed his gaze and instinctively pulled the blanket back up, but it was too late. Adrian's curiosity was piqued, though he kept his tone gentle.
"How did that happen?" he asked, nodding toward the scar.
Evelyn hesitated, her fingers brushing over the fabric as if debating whether to share. Then, with a deep breath, she let the blanket fall away, exposing the scar fully.
"I was eight," she began, her voice steady but distant. "There was a fire in our family's lake house. My parents were downstairs arguing about something—I never knew what. I tried to get out, but part of the ceiling collapsed. This"—she touched the scar—"is what I got for being too slow."
Adrian's jaw tightened as he listened, the image of a young Evelyn trapped in a burning house striking a chord he didn't expect.
"They got me out eventually," she continued. "But I remember lying in the hospital bed, listening to my father promise that he'd never let anything hurt me again." She gave a small, bitter laugh. "Funny how that turned out."
Adrian's chest tightened at her words. For all her strength and poise, Evelyn carried her wounds in ways that weren't immediately visible. He leaned forward slightly, his voice soft.
"You survived," he said. "That says a lot about you."
Evelyn's eyes met his, and for a moment, the walls she so carefully maintained seemed to crack. "Survival isn't always a choice," she replied. "Sometimes it's just what happens when everything else falls apart."
Adrian felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name. Sympathy? Admiration? Guilt? Maybe all three. He wanted to say something, anything, to ease the weight she carried, but the words wouldn't come.
Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing hers lightly. The touch was brief, but it carried a warmth that neither of them expected.
Evelyn looked down at their hands, her heart skipping a beat. "You're full of surprises," she said, her tone softer now.
Adrian gave a wry smile. "You're one to talk."
They sat like that for a while, the tension between them shifting into something quieter, more intimate. The fire crackled in the background, its warmth mirroring the fragile connection forming between them.
For the first time in weeks, Evelyn felt a small measure of peace, though she couldn't explain why. And Adrian, watching her relax ever so slightly, felt the cracks in his own armor begin to spread.
Neither of them said it aloud, but they both knew that something had changed. The walls they had so carefully built around themselves were no longer as impenetrable as they once seemed.