That night, Mirabelle lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling as moonlight traced pale patterns across the room. The house was still, the only sound the faint whisper of wind brushing against the balcony glass. Her phone sat face down on the nightstand, glowing faintly. Sleep had eluded her for days; every alert, every whisper online felt like a heartbeat too loud.
Then—buzz.
Her heart lurched. She reached for the phone, hesitating before turning it over.
Noah:
You blocked me before.
She froze, the words thrumming against her fingertips. Before she could process the message, another appeared.
Noah:
I know you're reading this. Don't block me again. Reply.
Mirabelle stared at the screen, the glow illuminating her face in soft blue light. Her pulse fluttered, her mind blank. Finally, she took a shaky breath and began to type.
Mirabelle:
I… wasn't sure if I should.
There was a short pause before his next message appeared.
Noah:
Why did you block me in the first place?
Guilt twisted in her chest.
Mirabelle:
Because… I didn't want to bother you. You're busy, and I thought maybe you'd prefer the space.
His reply came almost instantly.
Noah:
You don't bother me.
The simplicity of it made her breath catch. The words lingered on the screen—quiet, sincere, and disarming.
After that, the conversation softened into something almost ordinary. He asked how she'd been spending her days. She told him about her street performances, the weekend crowds, and the small circle of friends she had made. He teased her for still performing outside when she could easily fill a concert hall, and she shot back that not everyone preferred to live under spotlights.
The exchange felt strange and comforting—two people who had once lived parallel lives finally speaking on even ground. She thought of how she used to chase him endlessly while he only offered gentle tolerance. Now, for the first time, they spoke like equals.
She smiled faintly at that realization. For once, she didn't feel like an intrusion in his world.
Their messages slowed as the night stretched on, the pauses between replies growing longer.
Then, his final text appeared.
Noah:
I'll come tonight. Good night.
Mirabelle blinked at the words, tilting her head. He'll come tonight? The message puzzled her, but exhaustion was already pulling her under before she could overthink it.
Hours later, long past midnight, Noah entered her room with the calm certainty of a man convinced he belonged there. He moved quietly through the shadows until he reached her bedside. She was fast asleep, her hair spilling over the pillow, her breathing slow but restless.
He smiled softly. Everyone must have known by now that he stayed here sometimes—it only made sense. They were engaged, weren't they?
Without hesitation, he removed his jacket and slipped beneath the covers. The moment he drew closer, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him. He exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders, and gently slid an arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.
His fingers threaded gently through her hair reverently. Her body softened under his touch, the faint lines of tension easing away. Noah rested his chin on top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo.
Here—wrapped around her—everything felt quiet and whole.
"Good night, my Belle," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair before closing his eyes.
Sleep came easily. Because beside her, everything finally felt right.