TRUTH IS OUT
1446 Words
Soren
He comes over with intention, not urgency.
That matters to him — the difference between rushing in to fix something and showing up because he wants to stay.
Arabella opens the door barefoot, hair loose, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder like she forgot to armor herself today. She looks tired. Not broken. Just… worn thin.
“My team and your mom are already handling the article,” he says once they’re inside. “Legal, PR, everything. It’s contained.”
She hums, clearly not listening. “Tea, coffee, movie?” she offers quickly. “Anything to avoid talking about feelings?”
He snorts despite himself. “No, Arabella. Avoidance is your thing. I’ll put the tea on.”
She follows him into the kitchen but doesn’t hover. He notices that — how she lets him exist in her space without watching, without performing.
The kettle clicks on. Silence settles.
Then she exhales.
“So,” she says, staring at the counter. “What is it you want to know?”
He chooses his words carefully. “I’ve noticed sometimes you seem… stressed. Or anxious.”
She presses a hand to her face, half-laughing, half-groaning. “I hate talking about things like this. It’s so hard.”
A pause.
“But I guess it’s too late,” she adds softly. “Since you’ve seen at least half of my mental breakdowns.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He won’t rush her through this.
“I don’t know,” she continues. “It’s just… everything. The pressure. Sometimes I don’t mind being known, and other times I feel so exposed. Like I just want to disappear. Not be seen. Not be talked about. Not be… anything.”
His chest tightens.
Disappear.
He files the word away quietly, tells himself not to panic, not to project meaning she didn’t give. He nods instead, grounding himself in what she is saying.
She glances at him and smiles faintly. “Believe it or not, I started out really shy.”
That surprises him. “You?” he says gently. “The woman who gets attention without trying?”
She shrugs. “Aliana calls it being allergic to people.”
“That tracks,” he says seriously. “Allergic reactions are usually involuntary.”
She laughs — a real one — and it feels like oxygen.
“I wasn’t introverted like Aliana,” she goes on. “Just shy. Somewhere between everything. And over time it turned into… something else. Especially when I started photoshoots, when I really entered the industry.”
Her voice lowers.
“There’s a lot you don’t know at first. People crossing lines. Trying things. Darker stuff. I like my work — I do — but it caused anxiety attacks. Things I thought were temporary started feeling permanent. And sometimes I’d rather just pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Soren’s jaw tightens.
He sees it now — the pattern, the weight, the exhaustion of being resilient without being protected.
If drinking was her way of quieting it, he thinks, how loud must it get when she’s alone?
The thought scares him more than he lets on.
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Can I help?”
She looks at him, surprised by the simplicity of the question.
“I’m not sure,” she admits. “But you already are. Just by being supportive.”
She reaches out, places his hand over hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Something in him settles — and something else tightens.
Because this is the part where he wants to do more. Be more. Fix it.
And he knows that instinct well enough to fear it.
He squeezes her hand lightly. “I’m not here to fix you.”
She studies him. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
He exhales, then chuckles. “I’m bad at not trying.”
She tilts her head. “That worries me.”
“It should,” he admits. “But I’m learning.”
Another quiet beat.
She smirks. “So… what now? Are you going to officially ask me to be your girlfriend?”
He blinks. “Ask?”
“Yes,” she says. “With words. Like a normal person.”
He looks genuinely confused. “Arabella, you’ve been my girlfriend in my head for two years.”
Her mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“I just never bothered announcing it,” he adds calmly. “Seemed unnecessary.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The humor fades into something steadier. Something chosen.
She leans into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Then stay.”
And this time — it’s not about saving.
It’s about being there when fixing isn’t possible.
..
Soren
They sit there longer than either of them intends to.
Her hand is still under his. His thumb traces the faintest circle against her skin — not deliberate, not strategic. Just… there.
Arabella lifts her head first.
She looks at him like she’s decided something.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.”
“You’re really not going anywhere, are you?”
The question is light. The meaning is not.
He answers without thinking. “No.”
Not I don’t plan to.
Not I’ll try.
Just no.
Something in her expression shifts — relief, maybe. Or permission.
She leans in, slowly, giving him every chance to stop her.
He doesn’t.
Their kiss is quiet. Not hungry. Not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that comes from waiting too long and knowing better than to ruin it.
Her lips are warm. Careful. She presses in like she’s checking if he’s real.
He cups her face without tightening his grip, thumb brushing her cheek like he’s afraid to startle her. When she sighs — barely there — his chest aches.
This, he thinks. This is what I was holding my breath for.
They part just enough to breathe.
She rests her forehead against his. “That felt… overdue.”
He smiles. “Painfully.”
She laughs under her breath and kisses him again, softer this time. Familiar already.
When they finally pull back, she stays close. Like leaving would be a lie.
“I should warn you,” she murmurs. “I don’t do dramatic declarations.”
He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good. I already decided you were mine two years ago.”
She groans. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still here.”
She is.
---
The Next Morning — Arabella
Arabella wakes to quiet.
No buzzing anxiety. No emails yet. Just the soft light of morning slipping through the curtains.
She pads into the kitchen, reaches for the tea she always drinks — and stops.
The counter is covered.
Boxes. Bags. Flowers.
She frowns.
A neat row of tea tins sits lined up like soldiers. Chamomile. Lemon balm. Ashwagandha blends. Magnesium-infused herbal mixes. No caffeine anywhere.
There’s a sleek diffuser on the island, still in its packaging. A small envelope rests beside it.
Before she can open anything, the doorbell rings.
A woman stands outside, tablet in hand. Polished. Professional.
“Arabella Valencourt?”
“Yes?”
“I’m with Everheart Private Services. Soren Everheart directed me to deliver these personally.”
Arabella blinks. “Directed…?”
“Yes, ma’am. He asked that everything be set up today. The teas, supplements, diffuser. The flowers were his addition.”
Her gaze drifts back to the counter.
To the care.
To the planning.
To the control wrapped in tenderness.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “Okay.”
The assistant smiles politely and leaves.
Arabella closes the door and leans back against it.
She feels warm.
Flattered.
Seen.
And — somewhere beneath that — unsettled.
Not because it isn’t kind.
But because it’s so thorough.
She lifts one of the tea tins, reading the label.
For relaxation. For balance. For calm.
Her phone buzzes.
Soren:
Morning, Bella. Did everything arrive okay?
She smiles despite herself.
Types back.
Arabella:
It did. Thank you. That was… very thoughtful.
She hesitates before adding:
Arabella:
You didn’t have to do all of that.
A pause.
Then:
Soren:
I know. I wanted to.
Her chest tightens — not painfully. Not yet.
She sets the phone down, staring at the flowers.
He’s scared, she realizes.
Not of losing her to someone else.
But of losing her to something he can’t out-design, out-plan, or outwork.
And she doesn’t resent him for it.
Not yet.
But the seed is planted.
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