Enchanted With My Security

A Glass Between Us

I raised an eyebrow. “You think I need wine?”

Francis held the car door open, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I think you’re used to hiding behind structure. Wine’s good for breaking down walls.”

Now I sat across from him in a narrow booth pressed against a fogged window, staring at the flickering candle between us, wondering how he managed to disarm me with so few words.

The waitress appeared—a red-haired woman with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

“Two glasses of the house red,” Francis said without even looking at the menu. “And the spiced olives. Almond crackers too, if they have them.”

I blinked. “Do you come here often, Mr. Gatekeeper?”

He leaned back, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Just enough to know what’s good.”

“And here I thought you lived in that gatehouse like a forest monk.”

“I get out,” he said, meeting my gaze. “More than you think.”

I lowered the menu, suddenly aware of how close we were. The booth pressed us together in a way that felt too intimate—and for once, I didn’t hate it.

The wine arrived. Deep red, smooth and warm in the glass. I took a slow sip—earthy, with a hint of sweetness I hadn’t expected.

“Not bad,” I admitted.

“Told you.”

“You’re full of surprises, Francis.”

He traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip. “And you’re full of walls.”

I lifted a brow. “Professional opinion?”

“No,” he said softly, eyes on mine. “Just personal observation.”

We picked at the olives and crackers without rushing. Outside, the city moved in slow silhouettes behind the glass, hazy and quiet. Between us, the silence felt heavy, but not uncomfortable—more like something waiting to be spoken.

“So,” he said suddenly, “why’d you take over the estate? You could’ve sold it. Taken the money and disappeared.”

I chewed slowly, caught off guard. No one had ever asked me that—not like this. Not without an agenda.

“I wanted to prove something,” I said at last. “To myself. To my father. That I could make something of it. Of me.”

He nodded but said nothing.

“Maybe,” I added, more quietly, “I just didn’t want to let go of the last pieces of him.”

Francis looked at me, and for a moment, there was something in his eyes—more than understanding. Something warmer. Real.

“I get that,” he said.

I tilted my head. “What about you? Why stay at the gatehouse? You could’ve done anything. Taken any job. Why… fences?”

His gaze dropped. “It’s not about fences,” he said finally. “It’s about what they guard.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

He hesitated. “I needed quiet. After the military. After losing…” His voice faltered. “Your father gave me that. No questions asked.”

I stared at him, stunned. “I didn’t know.”

“No reason you would.”

“You don’t talk about yourself.”

“You don’t ask.”

“Maybe I will.”

His eyes met mine again, steady and open, not guarded like before. Something fragile passed between us—unspoken but impossible to ignore. A shift.

The candle between us flickered.

Then the check arrived. Francis reached for it without hesitation.

“I’ve got this.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t argue. It ruins the wine.”

So I let him pay.

Outside, the night had cooled. A light breeze stirred the leaves around our feet as we walked to the car, parked beneath an ivy-wrapped lamppost. The kind of detail that felt pulled from a dream.

He opened the door for me, like always. But before I stepped in, I turned.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For not being what I expected.”

His expression shifted, softer now. “And what did you expect?”

“A man who opens gates and says nothing.”

“I do open gates,” he said, voice low. “But not all are made of iron.”

Without thinking, I reached out. Just a small gesture—my fingers brushing his hand. Not a move. Not a signal. A question.

He didn’t pull away.

We stood like that, in a quiet so full it felt sacred.

Then I slid into the car, and the door clicked shut.

As we drove, the city melted into shadow—stone walls and trees rushing past in silence. I stared out the window, the taste of wine still lingering on my lips, something shifting inside me that I couldn’t quite name.

Then my phone buzzed in my lap.

Unknown number.

Urgent.

My heart kicked.

I hesitated, then pressed **Answer**.

A voice—low, tense—came through the line like a chill wind through a crack in the wall:

**“Marie... we need to talk. It’s about Francis.”**