Mara didn't sleep that night.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow, unfamiliar sounds of another person existing nearby. The apartment settled around her pipes humming softly, wind brushing against the windows, the occasional creak of wood contracting in the cold.
Julien's presence felt like a question she hadn't agreed to answer.
She replayed his words over and over.
I won't chase you.
But I won't pretend I didn't notice you either.
Men usually chose one or the other. Pursuit or avoidance. Julien had chosen something worse acknowledgment without demand.
That kind of honesty was dangerous.
At some point near dawn, exhaustion finally dragged her under.
When she woke again, pale light filtered through the curtains. Her phone read 7:08 a.m. Snow still fell outside, slower now, heavier. The storm had settled in, as if deciding to stay.
Mara sat up slowly, her chest tight with the dull ache of unrested sleep. She rubbed her face and exhaled, already bracing herself for another day of forced politeness and careful distance.
She opened her door.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
No kitchen sounds. No movement. No low music.
A strange ripple of disappointment passed through her before she could stop it.
She dressed and stepped into the kitchen. A note sat on the counter, weighed down by her keys.
Had to leave early. Roads might close again.
There's soup in the fridge. You don't have to eat it.
..J
She stared at the note longer than necessary.
He hadn't assumed. Hadn't intruded. Hadn't softened the message with unnecessary warmth.
She folded the paper once, then again, and slipped it into her pocket before she could question why.
The day stretched long and gray.
Mara worked remotely from the dining table, legal documents spread neatly before her. Words blurred together after a while custody arrangements, asset division, dissolution clauses. The careful dismantling of things that had once mattered.
She'd always been good at this part. Detachment. Precision. Ending things cleanly when they no longer served.
But her focus kept drifting.
To the window.
To the door.
To the silence Julien left behind.
By late afternoon, snow thickened again, the sky darkening prematurely. Streetlights flickered on, casting golden halos onto white-covered ground.
Her phone buzzed.
Julien: Roads are closed. I'll be late.
She stared at the message.
Her fingers hovered over the screen, unsure what response was appropriate. She wasn't used to reporting her movements to anyone. Wasn't used to someone explaining delays like it mattered.
Finally, she typed:
Mara: Okay.
She set the phone face down, irritated by the faint awareness that she was waiting now. For footsteps. For the sound of the door. For something to shift the stillness pressing in on her chest.
It was nearly nine when Julien finally returned.
She heard him before she saw him boots at the door, snow shaken loose, a tired sigh he didn't bother to suppress.
Mara stayed seated.
He entered the kitchen and froze slightly when he noticed her.
"Oh. Sorry. I thought you'd be asleep."
"I wasn't," she said.
He nodded, removing his coat. Snow clung to his lashes, his hair darker than usual, damp and curling slightly at the ends. He looked exhausted in a way that went beyond lack of sleep.
"Long day," he said.
"Mine too."
Silence again. But it felt different now. Less guarded. More fragile.
Julien opened the fridge, glanced at the pot, then back at her. "You didn't eat."
"I wasn't hungry."
That was a lie. They both knew it.
He didn't call her on it.
Instead, he leaned against the counter and studied her with quiet attention. Not scrutiny. Not judgment. Just… noticing.
"You work with endings," he said suddenly.
Mara stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"Divorce law," he clarified. "The documents. The way you read them. You're used to things falling apart."
Her first instinct was to deflect. To shut it down.
Instead, she surprised herself by saying, "Someone has to be."
He nodded slowly. "That takes a certain kind of strength."
She let out a short laugh. "Or numbness."
"Those aren't the same thing."
She met his gaze then, something sharp twisting in her chest. "You sound like someone who's had practice telling the difference."
Julien hesitated.
For the first time since she'd met him, he looked unsure.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I have."
The air between them tightened.
Mara pushed her chair back and stood, pacing once across the kitchen before stopping near the window. Outside, snow fell steadily, relentless and soft.
"My mother died on Valentine's Day," she said suddenly.
The words came out flat, unadorned. No warning. No preparation.
Julien didn't speak.
"She loved February," Mara continued, staring at the glass. "Loved the idea of it. Candles. Traditions. Small rituals. She said love needed reminders or people forgot to care for it."
Her throat tightened.
"I was fifteen. I spent the day watching strangers buy flowers while my aunt tried to convince me to wear a red dress I never put on."
She exhaled slowly. "So no. I don't do Valentine's Day."
The silence stretched.
She waited for pity. For apologies. For something clumsy and well-meaning.
Instead, Julien said, "My wife died in February."
Mara turned.
He was still leaning against the counter, but his shoulders had slumped slightly, as if the admission had cost him something.
"It wasn't Valentine's Day," he continued. "But the month ruined itself anyway."
The room felt suddenly too small to hold what they'd both said.
"I'm sorry," Mara said, the words instinctive, automatic.
He shook his head once. "I don't need that."
She understood. Too well.
They stood there, two people stripped of pretense, connected not by romance or desire, but by shared loss that refused to be romanticized.
"This," Mara said softly, gesturing between them, "is a mistake."
Julien's gaze didn't waver. "Maybe."
"I don't survive February by letting people in."
"I don't survive it by staying alone."
Her pulse kicked up, the truth in his words unsettling her more than she wanted to admit.
She stepped back, reclaiming space. "We should keep boundaries."
"Yes," he agreed immediately. "We should."
The ease of his agreement threw her off balance.
She nodded once, sharply, and turned toward her room.
"Mara," he said.
She paused, not turning around.
"Thank you for telling me," he added. "You didn't have to."
She swallowed. "Neither did you."
That night, sleep came easier and that frightened her.
Because comfort had always been the first warning sign.
February pressed in around the apartment, heavy with memory and unspoken possibility.
And somewhere between shared grief and unguarded truth, something had begun to change.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the wall she'd spent years building had finally cracked.