By the time the final waltz dissolved into silence, the ballroom had begun to empty.
Laughter thinned into courteous farewells. Candles burned low, wax pooling quietly along silver holders like secrets no one intended to keep. The musicians packed away their instruments, the air slowly losing its magic.
Matthew searched the room once more.
He found Evelyne at a distance, standing with her family, composed and radiant in a way that made the approach feel improper. She turned briefly, just long enough for their eyes to meet.
Lady Evelyne Verin gave him a small, knowing wink before returning her attention to the guests beside her.
Thomas clapped a hand onto Matthew's shoulder, the weight of the night finally settling into his posture.
"Come on," he said, weary. "The evening's done."
Matthew allowed himself to be guided away together with Miss Charlotte.
Yet as he passed through the iron gates of the Verin estate and into the cool hush beyond, he realized the night had not ended at all.
It had merely followed him.
----
Morning arrived without ceremony.
Pale light filtered through thin curtains, settling over the quiet of Matthew's room in Turner Gate. Below, the city stirred, vendors calling out wares, carriage wheels scraping against stone but the sound felt distant, as though belonging to another life.
Matthew lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The music was gone.
The chandeliers, the silk, the laughter, each detail had dissolved into memory.
And yet, one thing remained.
That wink.
He turned onto his side, irritation and curiosity tangling together. Had it been amusement? Mockery? Courtesy? Or something else entirely?
Lady Evelyne Verin.
For the first time in years, he felt no urge to laugh the night away, no desire to recount triumphs or embellish the evening into something harmless.
Something had shifted. And it refused to be ignored.
----
Elsewhere in Turner Gate, morning asserted itself with blunt insistence.
Adrian adjusted the collar of his stiff-front shirt, fastening his vest with practiced hands. He reached for his umbrella by the door, pausing only long enough to secure his cap before stepping outside.
The streets greeted him with familiar reluctance.
Monday mornings and Sunday mornings were two sides of the same coin—one hopeful, the other endured. Faces moved past him with dull expressions, shoulders already braced for the hours ahead.
Some glanced his way with faint irritation.
Adrian smiled anyway.
He was accustomed to it. Work waited, as it always did. Routine demanded presence, not reflection. There was no time to linger on nights past or possibilities untested.
As Turner Gate stirred awake, Adrian walked forward with steady purpose, unaware that elsewhere in the city, another man stood unsettled by a single moment he could not name.
Two lives moving in opposite rhythms.
One haunted by what he felt.
The other is grounded by what he must do.
And somewhere between them, love waited, quietly sharpening its edge.
Adrian arrived at his place of work just as the bells marked the hour.
The building stood narrow and tall, its windows already lit despite the early hour. Inside, the scent of ink and paper clung to the air, familiar and grounding.
"Morning, Adrian."
Mr. Hallow stood near the counter, coat neatly pressed, spectacles balanced low on his nose as he reviewed a ledger. He looked up briefly, eyes sharp but not unkind.
"Good morning, sir," Adrian replied, setting his umbrella aside.
"You're early," Mr. Hallow observed.
Adrian smiled faintly. "Habit."
Mr. Hallow gave a short nod, already returning to his work. "See that the deliveries are logged before noon."
No further words were exchanged.
Adrian moved to his station, hands already finding their rhythm. There was comfort in the order of it, in knowing what was expected, and doing it well, without having to wonder whether it was enough.
Outside, the city continued its restless hum.
Inside, Adrian worked.