A short, startled laugh escaped him. “I hoped you would claim this place as your own. That you would… care for it. For those who depend upon it.” He paused. “I did not anticipate how much I would value watching that happen.”
The words rested between them, warm and weighted.
Eleanor reached for another volume—anything to steady her hands—and discovered she had grasped the same book Benjamin reached for.
Their hands touched.
It was nothing. A fleeting brush of fingers, lasting scarcely a heartbeat. The sort of incidental contact shared countless times by people working in proximity.
Yet neither withdrew.
Her hand remained upon the spine of the book. His fingers rested lightly against hers—warm, rough, unmistakably present. She felt the contact with alarming clarity: the calluses along his palm, the uneven ridges of scarred skin, the quiet heat that seemed to travel from him into her.
She ought to move. Ought to withdraw, offer some light remark, restore the careful distance they had always maintained.
She did not move.
“Eleanor.”
Her name, spoken low and rough. Neither question nor command—only her name, offered with unmistakable care.
She looked up.
His eyes were very dark in the firelight—dark and intent and fixed on her face with an expression that made her breath catchin her throat. He was not looking at the ledgers anymore. He was not looking at anything except her.
“You have ink on your cheek,” he said quietly.
The words were ordinary. Entirely practical. Yet his voice trembled faintly with something perilously close to uncertainty.
“Have I?” she whispered.
She ought to remove it herself. Ought to laugh at her inattention. Ought to do anything other than remain perfectly still with her hand beneath his and her heart beating with such force she feared he must hear it.
Benjamin lifted his free hand.
Slowly—so slowly she might have drawn back, might have turned aside, might have halted the moment before it formed.
She did not move.
His thumb brushed lightly across her cheekbone.
The touch was gentle—almost hesitant. He was removing the ink, she knew. A simple, harmless courtesy.
Yet his thumb lingered.
It followed the curve of her cheek with a deliberation that could not be mistaken. His palm came to rest against her jaw, his fingers curving softly along her face, holding her as though she were something easily broken.
Eleanor forgot how to breathe.
Forgot how to think.
Could only remain still as this scarred, silent man touched her with a tenderness that felt almost reverent.
“Eleanor,” he said again.
And she understood—suddenly, completely—that he was asking.
Not with words. Words had never been his skill. But his gaze asked. His hand asked. The stillness of his body asked. All she needed to do was lean forward—only slightly, only enough to close the fragile distance between them—
