Scarlett ate her dinner in silence, her gaze fixed on the plate rather than on him. The soft clinking of cutlery filled the space between them, yet the silence didn't feel heavy—it was calm, almost peaceful.
When Nicolas finally took a bite of the food, his expression shifted. Surprise flickered in his eyes, then softened into something warm.
"You… cooked this?" he asked quietly.
Scarlett gave a faint smile, the kind that came and went like a whisper.
"Yes. Why?"
He didn't answer, but he kept eating—each bite slower than before, as if savoring not just the flavor but the moment itself. For the first time in a long while, peace hung in the air between them, fragile but real.
After dinner, when Scarlett reached for the dishes, he stopped her. "Leave it. I'll do it," he said, taking them gently from her hands.
"You don't have to," she murmured.
"I want to," he replied, and for a moment, something in his tone softened the edges of her heart.
He stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, rinsing each plate under the running water. Scarlett leaned against the counter, watching quietly as the man who once built walls higher than mountains now washed her dishes in silence. The sight was oddly intimate, grounding her in a reality that felt too fragile to last.
When he finished, she spoke softly, almost hesitantly.
"Yesterday… when I said I wouldn't leave you," she began, "you didn't say anything. You haven't said you've forgotten me… or that you remember. You haven't said anything at all."
Nicolas froze for a heartbeat, his hands resting on the counter, the sound of the dripping tap filling the air between them. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then, without turning around, he spoke—his voice low, almost a whisper.
"Scarlett… there are things you shouldn't know. Things I can't say."
Her breath hitched. "Why not?"
"Because knowing me," he said, finally turning to face her, "means danger. It means living in fear every day. I don't want that for you."
Scarlett's eyes darkened, not with fear, but with hurt. "Then why do you come here, Nicolas? Why keep showing up, if you plan to keep me in the dark?"
He met her gaze, and in that moment, his usual cold composure wavered. "Because I can't stay away," he admitted. "I tried. But every time I do, I find myself walking back to you."
The words hung in the air, raw and heavy.
Scarlett took a step closer, her voice trembling. "Then stop pretending you don't remember. Stop hiding me like I'm a mistake you're ashamed of."
He flinched at that, his jaw tightening. "You think it's shame? You have no idea what kind of people are watching me, what they'd do if they knew about you."
"I don't care!" she burst out, the pain in her voice echoing through the small kitchen. "You think I'm afraid of them? I'm afraid of you walking away again."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through both of them.
Nicolas's hand reached out slowly, hesitating before brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch lingered, uncertain, like he was afraid she'd disappear if he held on too long.
"I never forgot you," he said quietly. "Not for a single day. But remembering you hurts more than forgetting ever could."
Scarlett's eyes softened, but tears threatened to spill. "Then why hide me? Why let everyone think you've moved on?"
He sighed, looking away. "Because the moment they know about you, they'll use you against me. And I can't let that happen."
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The ticking clock filled the silence, counting each heartbeat they both tried to steady.
Scarlett finally whispered, "I don't need protection, Nicolas. I need honesty."
He looked at her then—really looked at her—and something in his gaze broke. The mask he always wore slipped, revealing exhaustion, regret, and something deeper… love, unspoken yet undeniable.
He took her hand in his, his grip firm but trembling. "If I tell you everything, there's no going back," he murmured.
She met his eyes, unflinching. "Then don't go back."
For the first time, Nicolas didn't argue. The distance between them vanished, and for a fleeting second, it felt like the world outside didn't exist—just them, and the faint hum of the city beyond the window.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't closure. But it was a beginning—fragile, uncertain, and real.