Callum adjusted the bandage on his wrist with a grimace as he sat up. The discharge papers lay untouched on the tray beside him, the hospital scent already beginning to irritate him.
He heard the soft rustle before he saw her—Seraphine, moving around the room, her uniform replaced by a quiet navy blouse and dark trousers. She wasn't looking at him, just scanning his belongings with clinical precision.
She picked up his duffel bag and unzipped it halfway, fingers checking for essentials.
"You forgot your charger," she said simply, placing it inside without waiting for a reply.
Callum didn't speak. He didn't stop her either.
---
The ride down to the hospital's front lobby was quiet. Jonas waited with the car just outside. They got in without a word. Callum leaned against the window, eyes distant, watching the world blur past.
It wasn't until they crossed the business district that he finally spoke.
"Drop me at the company."
Jonas nodded, glancing briefly in the rearview mirror.
Sera didn't look at Callum. She simply sat still; hands folded over her lap. But when the car stopped, and Callum stepped out onto the curb, Seraphine followed.
He turned immediately. "You don't need to—"
She said nothing. Just walked past him into the building.
---
Inside his office, the air carried the sharp scent of old paper, cologne, and the lingering weight of unspoken things. Callum removed his coat with slow precision, his injured arm protesting the motion with a dull ache.
Sera stood beside the bookshelf, scanning titles. Her finger traced the worn spine of: The Black Horse Chronicles, before pulling it down, dusting it lightly, and flipping open to the first page. Without a word, she settled onto the small couch across the room and began to read.
A few minutes later, his assistant knocked and entered—young, well-dressed, and entirely too curious. The sight of Seraphine startled him, catching him off guard.
"President Virell, I've brought the reports and—" His voice faltered as his gaze lingered a moment too long on her, admiration slipping unguarded into his expression.
Callum's voice was low but definitive. "You're dismissed for now. Leave the papers."
The assistant blinked, sensing the shift in tone, then nodded quickly before retreating from the room.
Sera didn't look up from her book. Her expression remained unchanged, unreadable.
Time stretched between them, the quiet settling in comfortably. At precisely 6:00 p.m., she closed the book, stood, and walked to his desk.
"It's time to go home."
Callum's pen stilled mid-signature.
Then Sera teased, voice light but edged with something softer. "Luckily, your left-hand injury still lets you write."
He didn't answer right away.
But then he looked up.
There was something in her eyes—not a demand, not a plea. Just quiet expectation. As if the choice wasn't hers to make… but neither was it his to refuse.
He stood.
---
They didn't take the car.
Sera refused gently, her decision already made as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She didn't ask if he could manage the walk—she simply started forward, and Callum, still healing, followed without question.
They said nothing.
They didn't touch.
Yet neither walked ahead. Their strides remained unconsciously in sync, shadows stretching alongside each other beneath the fading gold of the city lights.
The world moved around them—distant sirens threading through the air, lovers laughing at street corners, vendors packing away the remnants of their day—but within their quiet, there was a language only they understood.
Not reconciliation.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But something is beginning.
Perhaps respect.
Perhaps understanding.
Or perhaps the shared grief that lingered between them, unspoken and unburdened by words. A grief that no longer needed to be named—only carried.