The smell of fresh coffee drifted through the modest yet sun-drenched London apartment.
It was a soft, quiet morning—the kind that slipped in through gauzy curtains and made time feel like it had stopped just for them. No deadlines, no press, no carefully curated appearances. Just the low hum of the city outside and the comforting creak of old wooden floors beneath Leon Castellan's bare feet.
He stood at the small kitchen counter, sleeves of his linen shirt rolled to the elbows, reading something on his tablet while the coffee brewed. The space was a far cry from his old penthouse—smaller, lived-in, warm in ways money couldn't buy. There were shelves filled with novels Aria had unpacked herself, a mismatched mug collection, and a small potted plant she kept forgetting to water.
Aria leaned against the doorframe in one of his old shirts, brushing hair off her cheek as she watched him.
"You're up early," she said, voice still rough from sleep.
Leon looked over his shoulder, his expression softening instantly. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd get ahead of the madness."
Aria padded barefoot across the floor and took the mug he wordlessly handed her. "Board meeting today?"
He nodded, setting his tablet down and tugging her gently into his side. "And a call with the Madrid office at noon."
She sipped the coffee and let herself lean into him, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He smelled like aftershave and something warm she couldn't name. Familiar. Steady.
"Want me to make breakfast?" she offered.
"You cook now?" he teased, cocking an eyebrow.
"No," she replied. "But I thought I'd offer so you'd appreciate the fact that you're doing it instead."
Leon chuckled under his breath. "Manipulation. You're already back in form."
Aria gave him a playful nudge, but the humor faded gently into something quieter. She set the mug down and turned to face him fully. "Can I ask you something?"
He stilled. "Always."
"Do you… ever regret any of this?" Her voice was soft, cautious, but unflinching.
Leon looked at her like the question itself wounded him.
"Aria—"
"I don't mean us," she added quickly. "I mean the way we did this. How we started again. Quietly. Without explanations. Like we were stealing time."
Leon took a long breath, then reached out and traced his thumb over the side of her jaw. "I regret every day we wasted pretending we could forget each other. But this? You and me here? There's not a moment of it I'd trade."
Her eyes fluttered shut under his touch.
"I think I'm ready to be seen again," she said at last, surprising herself.
He pulled back slightly. "You sure?"
"I don't want to hide anymore," she whispered. "I want to go out with you, stand beside you in a room and not care what they whisper. I'm tired of pretending like the scars make me less."
Leon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped back just enough to meet her eyes fully.
"You are the strongest person I've ever known," he said quietly. "You walked through hell, and you didn't come out unmarked—but you came out. That alone makes you impossible to look away from. If you want to walk back into the world, Aria…" He brushed his hand along her collarbone, anchoring her with his steadiness. "I'll be right beside you. Every time."
She blinked quickly, warmth rising in her chest.
He turned to the counter and slid a slim white invitation toward her. She picked it up, scanning the embossed lettering.
The Castellan Foundation Annual GalaHosted in collaboration with the London Cancer Research Trust
Black tie. High profile. Press guaranteed.
She hesitated.
Leon read the doubt in her silence. "You used to love those nights. You owned the room."
"I used to love who I was then," she murmured. "I'm not sure I know who that is anymore."
"You don't need to be her again," he said simply. "You're more now."
Aria bit her lip, fingers brushing over the edge of the invitation. "Alright. Let's do it."
He blinked. "Really?"
"I want them to see me," she said. "All of me. And you."
Leon stepped close again and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "You know they'll talk."
"Let them," she whispered, fingers curling into his shirt. "I'd rather be whispered about than forgotten."
He kissed her slowly—no heat, no urgency, just depth. Like he was breathing her in.
"I love you," he murmured against her lips.
"I know." She smiled. "But say it again anyway."
"I love you."
And again.
"I love you, Aria Castellan."
She closed her eyes and let the moment hold them both.
Because some things didn't need to be shouted to be real.Some things—the most important things—lived in the quiet,in the mornings before the city woke up,in the hands that knew exactly where to rest,in the way two people rebuilt a life not from scratch—but from truth.