Spending More Time Together
962 Words
**“I didn’t know gatekeeping came with perks,”** Francis teased, accepting one of the cups.
I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You looked like a man who appreciates good coffee.”
We stood there in the rising sun, the air cool and still, sipping in silence. But it wasn’t awkward. It was rare. Sacred. In all the years I’d lived behind these gates, I’d forgotten what ease could feel like.
---
It became a ritual.
Some mornings, pastries joined the coffee. On others, we wandered the long gravel path behind the estate, down to the garden where the roses grew stubbornly against the odds. Sometimes we spoke, sometimes we didn’t. The quiet was never empty.
Boundaries still lingered. But they began to blur.
One night after dinner, I stepped outside barefoot, a blanket folded in my arms. I found him where I somehow knew he’d be—near the eastern edge of the property, sketchbook open, caught in that glow between dusk and dark.
“You still draw,” I said softly as I sat beside him on the grass.
He didn’t look up, just nodded. “Can’t help it. Even if no one’s watching.”
I leaned over. He’d drawn my home—only it wasn’t exactly as it was. He had opened it, brightened it. As if he’d seen a way to make it... breathe.
“You changed the layout.”
“Just experimenting,” he said, almost apologetically.
I smiled. “I like it better this way.”
He closed the notebook slowly, more carefully than necessary. “Sometimes I forget what it’s like to imagine without consequence.”
I spread the blanket and patted the spot beside me. “Then let’s not talk about consequence. Just tonight, let’s lie here.”
He hesitated—then followed.
We lay under the stars. Above us, the sky stretched clean and vast, untouched by the city’s blur.
“Do you miss it?” I asked. “Architecture?”
“Every day,” he said. “But not for the reasons I thought I would.”
“What reasons?”
“I used to miss the title. The recognition. But now... I think I just miss building something that mattered. That stood.”
I turned toward him, resting my head on my arm. “You could still do that.”
He looked away. “I’m not sure the world would let me.”
I didn’t look away. “Then we’ll build something the world doesn’t see coming.”
---
Later that week, I took him to the downtown gallery. Public, polished—my name in gold on the wall. I saw the way they looked at him. Francis noticed too.
He didn’t flinch.
In front of a jagged, restless painting, I asked him, “What do you see?”
He took a breath. “Conflict. Movement. No center.”
I nodded. “That’s what being with you feels like.”
He turned sharply. “Is that... a bad thing?”
I held his gaze. “No. It’s honest. You don’t fit the frame I built for my life. But somehow, I keep finding myself drawn to the space you occupy.”
He was quiet. Then: “Maybe the frame was never big enough.”
---
Days later, he cooked for me.
Not a private chef. Not catered.
Francis.
“I’m good with gates,” he said, “but better with garlic.”
We used the guesthouse kitchen—chipped tiles, a stubborn oven, and a garden view. I sat on the counter, wine glass in hand, watching him move like he’d always belonged there.
“No one’s ever cooked for me,” I said.
He paused. “Ever?”
“Not without a paycheck attached.”
He gave me that crooked grin. “Then this one’s on the house.”
Dinner was simple. Perfect. We ate under soft string lights I didn’t even know were there. I laughed—really laughed. I didn’t know I still could.
Later, jazz played from an old stereo. I stood, swaying lightly, letting my hair fall freely for once.
“Dance with me,” I whispered.
He came to me without hesitation.
We danced slowly. No rules. No expectations. His hand on my back, my cheek against his shoulder. I felt his heartbeat through the fabric. Steady. Present.
“This feels dangerous,” he murmured.
“Why?” I asked, voice low.
“Because I could get used to this.”
I looked up at him, and for the first time in years, I told the truth without armor.
“Then let yourself.”
---
We didn’t kiss that night.
But when he walked me back to the main house, we paused on the steps. I looked at him—really looked.
“You’re not just the gatekeeper anymore,” I said.
He reached for my hand, his touch gentle. “And you’re not just the woman behind the gates.”
We stood there in the hush between us—something new, something fragile, something I didn’t want to lose.
This wasn’t an accident anymore.
It was becoming something real.
---
Then, just as he turned to leave, his phone buzzed sharply.
He looked at it.
I saw his expression shift—jaw tightening, smile fading.
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t speak. Just showed me the screen.
**“Some doors are better left closed.”**
My breath caught. Cold crept up the back of my neck.
We both turned toward the gatehouse in the distance.
Its lights were off.
Francis squinted.
There—just beyond the edge of the trees.
A flicker of movement. A silhouette.
Watching us.
And then it was gone.
- Writer
