Two weeks had passed since that night.
Two weeks since I woke up with my cheek against Alex's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his warmth chasing away the shaking that had gripped me for hours. Two weeks since I'd whispered, "Can you stay?" and he had, silently, without a single word of protest.
But the next morning, the world went back to normal.
Or, at least, Alex's version of normal.
He hadn't mentioned that night once. Not the way I'd panicked, or how he'd held me until the tremors stopped. He hadn't even looked at me differently. It was almost as though it hadn't happened, except I could still feel it, that invisible thread that had stretched between us in the dark, taut and fragile and real.
Since then, we'd been dancing around each other. Careful. Civil.
He'd leave early for work, returning late.
I'd pretend not to listen for the sound of his car in the driveway.
This morning, I hadn't bothered to do much with myself. My hair was twisted into a messy high bun, stray curls framing my face, and I wore one of Alex's old shirts I'd found buried in a drawer, oversized and soft, reaching halfway down my thighs. I'd meant to throw on something proper, but the shirt was warm, smelled faintly like his cologne, and for once, I didn't care to look perfect.
It was raining, soft, silvery rain tapping against the tall glass windows of the living room. The kind that made the world feel quiet, slow, almost peaceful. I sat curled on the couch, sketchbook open but mostly untouched, absently dragging the pencil across the page in vague lines that didn't mean much.
That was when the doorbell rang.
The sound made me jump a little. No one ever came here unannounced.
I set my sketchbook aside, padding barefoot across the marble floor. Martha's muffled voice drifted from the foyer, "Ma'am! There's someone here to see Mr. Matteo!"
I frowned, pulling open the door.
The man standing outside was nothing like I'd expected. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his smile wide and unreasonably charming, rain droplets clinging to his dark hair. In one hand, he held a bouquet of white tulips.
"Good morning," he said, his voice warm and teasing, as though we already knew each other. "You must be Ava."
I blinked. "Uh… yes. And you are?"
"Miguel." He flashed me a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Alex's childhood friend. And, unfortunately for him, his business partner too."
"Oh." My lips tugged upward before I could stop them. "He never mentioned you."
"Of course he didn't," Miguel said easily, stepping just inside as I motioned him in. "He never mentions anyone unless it's absolutely necessary." He glanced around the house, whistling lowly. "Still the same taste, expensive, quiet, and slightly intimidating."
That made me laugh softly. "You sound like you know him well."
"Too well," he said, grinning. "We grew up in Madrid together. He hasn't changed much, still brooding, still terrible at texting back."
"Sounds accurate," I murmured, smiling faintly.
Before Miguel could reply, a familiar voice cut through the air behind me. "Miguel?"
I turned. Alex was halfway down the staircase, his expression caught between surprise and annoyance. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the faintest stubble darkening his jaw.
Miguel broke into a grin. "Hermano! About time you showed your face."
"Why are you here?" Alex asked, descending the last few steps. His tone was clipped but not cold. Just… guarded.
"To rescue you from yourself," Miguel said simply, handing him the bouquet. "And to invite you and your lovely wife to a proper vacation."
Alex stared at the flowers as if they'd personally offended him. "A what?"
"A vacation," Miguel repeated, clapping him on the shoulder. "Sofia and I rented a snow cabin in Switzerland. You're both coming."
I blinked. "Switzerland?"
"St. Moritz," Miguel said, turning to me with a grin. "Beautiful place. Snowy, quiet, romantic. Sofia says you'll love it."
"I..." I started, but Alex's voice cut in.
"She's not going."
Miguel raised a brow. "She can answer for herself, amigo."
I bit back a laugh at his boldness. Alex, on the other hand, didn't look amused.
Miguel turned to me again, softer now. "You should come. It'll be good for you both. Alex hasn't taken a break since before I met Sofia, and honestly, I think he's starting to rust."
That earned a small, reluctant twitch from Alex's mouth, almost a smile, but not quite.
"It's a few days," Miguel added, leaning against the armrest. "Fireplace, snow, and Sofia's cooking. She makes hot chocolate that'll ruin all others for you."
I hesitated, then nodded slowly. "That actually sounds… nice."
Miguel beamed. "See? She's reasonable." He glanced at Alex. "Unlike you."
Alex exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he was fighting a losing battle. "You should have called first."
"You would've said no," Miguel said simply. "Now you can't."
"I can," Alex replied dryly.
Miguel's grin widened. "But you won't."
A long silence stretched between them. Then Alex sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "When?"
"Friday morning. Sofia's excited already, she's been dying to meet Ava."
I blinked. "She… knows about me?"
Miguel chuckled. "Knows, stalked your wedding pictures, might have memorized your face. Don't worry, she's harmless. Just very curious."
Alex shot him a warning look, but Miguel ignored it entirely, walking toward the door. "Alright, I'll let you two get ready. Pack something warm...and Ava," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "you're wearing that shirt way too well for Alex to be this calm."
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. "I...uh...it's just..."
"She's fine," Alex cut in sharply, voice low.
Miguel laughed. "I'm sure she is."
When the door closed behind him, silence flooded back into the room.
Alex stood there for a long moment, his hand still on the bouquet Miguel had shoved at him. White tulips. They looked almost out of place in his hands.
"You don't have to come," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "Miguel tends to overstep."
"I want to," I said before I could think twice. He looked at me then, really looked...and something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"I mean," I added quickly, "it might be good. To get away."
He didn't respond for a moment. Then he turned slightly, the faintest exhale escaping him. "Alright."
"Alright?"
"Yes." His tone was careful, unreadable. "We'll go."
He moved to leave, but I caught the faintest ghost of a smile tug at his lips before he turned away.
I stood there for a while after he was gone, the echo of Miguel's laughter still lingering in the hall, the tulips still sitting in a vase by the window.
Switzerland.
Snow.
A cabin.
A change of scenery , and maybe, if I was lucky, a change of something else too.