Morning light spilled over the hill, casting a golden sheen on the dewy grass. The air carried the faint scent of earth and damp leaves, fresh from the night's chill. Below, the world was waking—distant city sounds murmuring at the edges—but up here, it felt untouched, like time had momentarily slowed.
And yet, he was here.
Nora hadn't even processed the weight of the question before he spoke.
"You always fall so dramatically?"
The voice—low, smooth, and threaded with amusement—was familiar, carrying a subtle challenge as if he savored her reaction.
Nora looked up, truly taking him in for the first time in daylight. The sun skimmed his hair—a blend of brown and gold—illuminating it with purpose. His hazel eyes, flecked with green and amber, glimmered quietly as he watched her. He stood effortlessly yet deliberately, present without demanding attention.
And then there was his scent—clean, with a faint trace of something warm and earthy, like cedar and the lingering bite of fresh rain. It suited him, unforced yet impossible to ignore.
She straightened, brushing off her sleeve, though there was nothing there. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was even, but inside, a dozen thoughts tangled together.
The letter. The writer had told her to be here, at this exact time. Was it just a coincidence? Or had Sunny been waiting for her?
His lips quirked at the corners, not quite a smirk, but something close. "I could ask you the same thing," he said.
She exhaled, not answering right away. The way he looked at her—it wasn't just casual observation. It was interest, curiosity, something deliberate yet unspoken.
"I come here a lot," he continued, shifting his weight slightly. "Mornings are quiet. Cleaner. Feels like the city hasn't had the chance to ruin itself yet." He glanced past her, toward the open street beyond. "And sometimes, you just need a place to breathe."
His voice had softened on the last part, and for a brief second, she saw something unguarded in his expression.
He let out a small, amused breath. "I have other places—a spot near the Thames at night, a café outside Camden where they get my coffee just right." His gaze met hers, teasing. "But none of them have you."
Warmth crept up her cheeks before she could stop it. She tried to brush past it, to act unaffected, but the weight of his words lingered, settling deep in a way she couldn't ignore.
She shifted slightly. I should go. The words formed in her mind, a ready escape, but they didn't come easily. His presence had a way of filling the space, of making it hard to move in the direction she thought she should.
"I should go," she said, too quickly.
"Should," he echoed, like he was considering the word itself. His gaze didn't waver. "But do you want to?"
A quiet challenge. Nothing pressing, nothing demanding, but still—he was watching her, waiting, reading something in her that she wasn't even sure of herself.
She had no idea how to answer that.
Instead, she reached for her phone. A distraction. Something to break this moment before it became something I had to name.
"Here," she muttered, offering it to him.
Sunny took it without hesitation, his fingers brushing hers as he typed. The touch was brief, barely there, yet her skin still tingled when he pulled away. When he handed the phone back, there was something undeniably pleased in his expression—like he'd won a game she hadn't realized they were playing.
"Now, if you ever need someone to catch you again," he said, stepping back slightly, "you know who to call."
Light words, playful. But from him, they felt deliberate.
Nora swallowed. He had caught her—physically, yes, but in another way too. One she wasn't sure she wanted to name.
She gripped her phone tighter and turned away before she slipped any further.
By the time she reached The Place, she was still lost in thought, her steps quicker than usual. She hadn't even realized she was staring blankly at the counter until a familiar voice pulled her back.
"Well, mon chéri, you look good today."
She blinked, meeting Lily's playful gaze. The barista leaned against the counter, watching her with that usual smirk, eyes sharp like she noticed everything.
"Coffee to go?" Lily asked, already reaching for a cup.
Nora nodded.
Lily worked in silence, but that teasing energy lingered between them. When she handed over the coffee, she held it just a second longer.
"Smile a little," she said with a wink. "It suits you."
Nora huffed but couldn't help the small curve of her lips.
"Better." Lily grinned. "Now, off you go before I keep you here all day."
Nora shook her head, taking her coffee and stepping back out onto the street.
The gallery was waiting.
Nora walked through Camden's streets, her coffee warm in her hands, yet her mind felt distant, trapped in the morning's encounter.
She took a slow sip, letting the warmth ground her, but the questions didn't fade.
By the time she reached her gallery, the familiar space felt like the only thing real. She locked the door behind her, placed her coffee on the counter, and exhaled.
The image was fleeting at first—the hill, golden light spilling across the grass, the wind weaving through his hair like it belonged there.
With each stroke, the vision sharpened. Shadows deepened, colors bled together, and the world beyond the canvas faded. Only the rhythm remained—the rise and fall of color, the quiet melody of creation.
She switched brushes without hesitation, chasing a feeling rather than a thought. The warmth of the sun, the crispness of the air, the sudden slip of the ground beneath her feet—and the way his arms had caught her.
That was where she started.
The way the sun had been behind him, threading gold through his dark hair. The sharp contrast of shadow against his cheekbones, softening just enough where the light touched his jaw. His gaze—steady, unreadable, as if he had been expecting her all along.
Time unraveled—only movement, only breath, only the silent conversation between her and the art.
Then—stillness.
Her brush hovered midair, the moment holding its breath.
She stepped back, heart unsteady, eyes fixed on the canvas.
Him, the hill, the light turning him into something just out of reach. Not just a painting—a memory caught in color, a feeling she hadn't meant to keep.
Not just that she saw it, she could feel it too.
She exhaled, grounding herself, and reached for a cloth to wipe the paint from her hands. But as she turned, her eyes landed on the table.
The brushes.
One stood out from the rest.
It had been there the whole time—untouched, yet undeniably present. The weight of something she hadn't yet fully grasped.
A whisper from the letter surfaced in her mind. Check the initials.
A slow, cold realization crept through her.
Moving carefully, as if disturbing the air would shatter whatever this was, she stepped forward. Her fingers curled around the brush, and the moment she lifted it, she felt it—
The weight. The balance. The unmistakable fit of something meant to be held.
And then, her thumb brushed over the initials.
Her breath caught.
She knew.
A memory surfaced—her eighteenth birthday in Oakmere. A quiet celebration, just her and her mother. No grand gestures, just a simple dinner, a cake too small to matter, and a single wrapped gift.
She had expected a lecture on practicality, on choosing a stable future. Instead, her mother had simply smiled, placed the gift in her hands, and whispered, This is yours. It's just right for you.
Nora had unwrapped it carefully, her fingers brushing over the wooden handle, the smooth surface interrupted by something familiar. Her initials—carved in her mother's handwriting.
And now, here it was.
The weight of it sank deep into her chest. It wasn't just the brush—it was the letter. The writer had told her to check the initials, had known she would recognize them.
Her pulse pounded.
How did they know?
Her fingers curled tighter around the handle, the smooth wood pressing into her palm. It fit too perfectly, just as the letter had said. As if it had always belonged in her hand. As if it had been waiting for her.
But that wasn't possible.
This brush—her brush—had been left behind in Oakmere, a piece of a life she had tried to escape.
So how was it here?
A slow, creeping fear slithered up her spine. Her breath grew uneven. Her thoughts spiraled.
The letter. The writer. The stranger from the hill.
Had he—?
No. It couldn't be.
And yet, the weight of the brush in her palm told her otherwise.
Someone had brought it here. Someone who knew her past. Someone who had been waiting.
Who was he? How did he have this?
And worse—
How much did he know?