The days settled into a quiet rhythm that surprised him with how quickly it felt natural.
Richard woke each morning to a message from Helene, or sent one before the house stirred. Nothing elaborate. A soft greeting. A wish for a good day. Sometimes a simple observation about the weather or something Becca or Luke had said at breakfast. The exchanges were brief, but steady, like a thread he carried with him as he moved through his days.
They spoke most evenings too, their calls stretching a little longer each time. He learned the cadence of her voice when she was tired, the way she laughed more freely when she wasn't, the thoughtful pauses she left before answering questions that mattered. He never rushed her. When she fell quiet, he waited. When she changed the subject, he followed. There was a deep pleasure in that restraint, in letting things unfold without force.
They met for lunch often, two or three times a week. Always near his office, always with the quiet understanding that he wouldn't abandon his responsibilities for her. She insisted on it, gently, but firmly.
"You can't keep cancelling meetings for me," she told him one afternoon as they sat in a small bistro tucked down a side street. "You have a full life."
"I do have a full life," he replied, smiling. "You're part of it, an essential part, not a disruption."
She ducked her head, smiling into her soup, but she didn't argue again.
Those lunches became something he cherished. A couple of hours carved out of the day where conversation came easily and the world felt less demanding. She spoke of Isabelle, of the children, of the quiet satisfaction she took in the routines of care. He spoke of his own children. Though not really children anymore, and how they spent their evenings now. Growing closer than ever. He would mention something about work when it mattered and avoided it when it didn't. They laughed more now. Not loudly, not often, but with an ease that surprised them both.
As December crept closer, the city began to change. Lights appeared in shop windows. Evergreen wreaths hung on doors. Even his office, usually so neutral and restrained, softened under the weight of seasonal decorations.
It was during one of their lunches, as they shared a plate of something warm and rich against the cold, that he mentioned his thoughts for Christmas.
"I've been thinking about taking the children away," he said carefully. "Just for a few days over Christmas. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere different."
Her eyes lifted to his, attentive. "Where were you thinking?"
"Belgium," he said. "Bruges, perhaps. Or Ghent. Somewhere with history. Cobblestones. Museums. Chocolate shops they can lose themselves in."
Her smile was immediate and genuine. "I think they'd love that."
"I thought it might be good for them," he continued. "A change of scenery. Time together. No reminders of… everything that's happened."
She reached for his hand. "That sounds very thoughtful. They deserve something that feels special. They're lucky to have you."
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but weighted.
"I want to tell them about us," he added quietly.
She did not look surprised.
"Ok."
"I plan to tell them after we return," he said. "Once things have settled. Once they've had a chance to breathe without anything else changing."
She nodded slowly.
"That makes sense."
"Are you ok with that?" he asked.
She smiled softly. "I am. You should tell them. But make sure they know that they will always come first and I understand that."
Relief moved through him, gentle, but profound.
He walked her back toward the station afterward, his hand holding hers. They said goodbye without ceremony, the way they often did now, trusting the next meeting would come.
That night, after his children had gone to their rooms, he stood at the window of the living room, the city lights blinking back at him, and thought about how careful he was being. How deliberate. He wondered if he had ever been this patient before.
He suspected the answer was no.
He thought about Chloe, perceptive and watchful, and Drew, quiet and shy, but steadier than he had been months ago.
He did not want to introduce uncertainty where they had only just found balance.
Yet, when he thought of Helene, he felt no doubt. Only a calm certainty that she was becoming something fixed in his life. Not loud. Not disruptive. Simply present.
They spoke again later that evening. She called him as she finished tidying the kitchen. He could hear the soft clink of crockery as she moved.
"Are you tired?" he asked gently.
"A little," she admitted. "But in a good way."
He smiled into the phone. "I like hearing your voice Helene. There's something so calming and soothing in your voice."
They talked about small things. About Christmas decorations Isabelle and the children had made. About Luke's excitement about the Christmas performance at school. About the cold settling into her bones when she stood too long in the park with them.
When the call ended, he sat for a while longer, his phone resting loosely in his hand, thinking about Belgium. About train journeys and narrow streets and the way his children's faces might light up at something unfamiliar.
He thought too about coming back. About what he would say when the time came. About how to introduce Helene, not as a disruption, but as a gentle addition.
The next weeks passed much the same way. Messages. Calls. Lunches. Quiet touches. Growing familiarity. Christmas drew closer, and with it a sense of something steady taking shape beneath the surface of their days.
One afternoon, as he watched Helene laugh at something he had said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, he thought, not for the first time that patience was not a restraint at all.
It was a choice.