Alan
The house was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the clock in the hallway.
Cyril and I moved through it almost in a dance, a careful rhythm we’d developed over the past few weeks.
Every touch was measured, every glance laden with unspoken meaning.
We were both acutely aware of the pull between us, but we had learned to channel it, save it for the private moments where no one could intrude.
I watched her from across the living room as she set down her coffee cup, her eyes briefly meeting mine before flitting away.
She caught me staring, and for a second, I thought I saw the same mixture of longing and restraint mirrored in her expression that I felt in my own chest.
“Alan,” she said softly, her voice barely rising above the quiet of th
