SIX YEARS OF LOVING YOU

“You have a photograph of me.”

Adrian stood in the study doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He glanced at the picture and closed his eyes briefly, as though he'd just discovered a weakness in his own defenses.

“I do.”

“Why?”

He set down the mugs. “You really don't remember?”

I looked again at the photograph. Rain shone on the pavement behind me. A black umbrella was caught in my hand.

And then I remembered.

Six years earlier, I'd been delivering donations to St. Catherine's when I'd found a young man standing outside in the rain, staring at his phone with the hollow expression of someone who had just received terrible news. I had offered him my umbrella. He'd tried to refuse. I'd insisted.

“You look like someone who hasn't had a good day in a very long time,” I'd told him.

He'd asked why I was helping a stranger.

“Because you're getting soaked.”

I laughed now, disbelieving. “That was you?”

“My father had been admitted to the hospital. The board was fighting over his successor. I had spent the entire day being told what I owed everyone.” Adrian sat opposite me. “You were the only person who asked whether I was all right.”

“I didn't even ask your name.”

“You told me yours. Your volunteer badge was crooked.”

The photograph had been taken by a hospital volunteer for their annual charity newsletter. Adrian had recognized me in it after the event.

“But one umbrella doesn't explain six years,” I said.

“No. It doesn't.”

He told me about the later meetings I'd barely remembered. The art fundraiser where I challenged a wealthy collector for mishandling a fragile painting. The charity auction where I stayed after everyone left to help the staff dismantle displays. A reception where I quietly stood up for an intern who'd been blamed for a director's mistake.

“You didn't perform kindness when people were watching,” he said. “You were kind when it cost you something.”

“I also spent five years making a fool of myself for Julian.”

“You spent five years hoping someone would return the love you offered. That was painful. It doesn't make you foolish.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“Because you were in love with somebody else. And because my feelings didn't give me a claim on you.”

That answer unsettled me more than any grand confession could have. Julian had always treated my affection as an asset he owned. Adrian spoke of loving me as a fact that carried no demand.

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

He held my gaze. “Yes.”

“You barely know me now.”

“Then I'll get to know you. You can decide what happens after that.”

I should have needed time to recover from that sentence. Instead, I found myself watching the movement of his mouth.

Life at the house acquired a rhythm. Adrian worked in the city most mornings, but came home for dinner whenever possible. I took a remote contract repairing water-damaged drawings, and my ankle slowly healed. We argued over music—he loved jazz, I played terrible eighties pop while working—and discovered we both hated expensive coffee that tasted like burnt wood.

One morning I climbed onto a stool to reach a cup and heard him behind me.

“Elliot, your ankle.”

“It's fine.”

“I know you can reach it.” He stepped close, one hand hovering at my waist without landing. “May I help anyway?”

He was near enough that I could smell his soap. I nodded. He took the cup down, placed it beside me, and somehow made retreating feel like the hardest thing in the world.

Another night I fell asleep on the sofa with a book open on my chest. I woke as Adrian spread a blanket over me. Instinctively I caught his wrist.

“Don't go yet,” I whispered.

He sat beside me. I pretended not to notice the way his fingers curled around mine.

At the end of the week we walked in the garden as the sunset turned the sea copper. Adrian reached for my hand, paused, and waited. I slipped my fingers between his.

“You make everything sound so simple,” I said.

“Most things aren't.” He looked down at our hands. “This part can be.”

I realized I was beginning to wait for him to come home. Not because he needed me, or because I was frightened he'd be angry if I wasn't there. I waited because the house changed when he walked into it.

That night I stood outside his bedroom door for almost a minute before knocking.

Adrian opened it in a black T-shirt, his hair disordered from a late shower.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” I swallowed. “If I asked you to kiss me...”

His breathing changed.

“Would you mean it?”

I met his eyes. “I think I would.”