[LINA]

I guess . . . life was peaceful now.

Not perfect, no. But quiet. Safe.

Seeing Daniel—even just a few times a week—felt like breathing fresh air after being underwater for too long.

He always arrived a few minutes early for our dates—an annoying habit sometimes—and when I'd open the door, he'd already be grinning like he knew a secret.

Sometimes I'd catch him watching me while I rambled about my day, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh.

Other times, we'd meet at a café, and I'd find him already sipping his drink—black coffee, extra strong—humming under his breath while glaring at his half-burnt muffin like it had personally offended him. That was Daniel.

Simple. Steady. Warm.

We didn't argue much—though when we did, it was over silly things. Like who picked the worst movie last weekend, or why he refused to update his ancient phone.

Our time together wasn't a whirlwind romance or anything straight out of a drama. But it was real. Easy. A rhythm I could finally fall into without the fear of something falling apart.

We weren't building a life under one roof yet—but we were building something. Quietly. Carefully.

And somehow, that was enough . . . for now.

Yet despite the softness of my days, I couldn't bring myself to be completely happy.

Not when Cole was . . . like this.

He didn't talk much anymore—not like he used to. Not even to me.

And that terrified me more than anything.

Cole had always been the one to tease, to challenge, to poke at the world like it owed him an answer. He used to be all sharp eyes and quick wit.

But lately, all I saw was a shell—hollowed out and tired, hiding behind the fortress of his work.

If I didn't check in, he wouldn't call. If I didn't show up, he wouldn't invite me. If I didn't drag him out for dinner, he wouldn't even remember to eat.

And the worst part?

He didn't seem to care.

At first, I thought he was just going through a phase. That the pressure at the company was weighing on him again. He always had a short fuse when things didn't go perfectly. But I knew this wasn't about numbers or reports or stupid corporate politics.

This was about Eve.

And the fact that she was gone.

I still remembered the day she left like it had just happened. The way she looked—composed but pale, lips trembling as she said she needed space. She didn't cry. Eve was too strong for that.

But she had that look in her eyes—the kind you get when you're about to break but still want to leave with dignity.

Cole hadn't said a word back then. Not really. He just let her go.

And then something inside him shut off.

I tried to talk to him. Tried to tell him it was okay, that sometimes people needed time to sort out their pain. That Eve might just be figuring things out, and that she might come back when she was ready.

But Cole . . . Cole had already decided.

"She's better off," he told me once, voice flat and final. "She looks happier now. She's with her real family. I don't want to ruin that."

And no matter how many times I argued—no matter how many times I reminded him that he didn't know what she was really feeling—he refused to believe otherwise.

"She's at peace now, Lina," he said. "I'm not going to be the storm that takes that away again."

It broke something in me, hearing him say that.

Because if he really believed he was the storm . . . then he'd never fight for her again. This copy comes from content on M|V|L0EMPYR.

He'd already given up.

And no matter how much I wanted to slap some sense into him, yell, scream, drag him to Eve and lock them in a room until they finally talked it out—I didn't.

I didn't do any of that.

Because deep down, I knew it wouldn't help.

Not yet. It would only make things worse.

I smacked my lips tight and clenched my fists, staring at the untouched coffee mug I had set in front of Cole just an hour ago. He barely noticed it. Probably still buried under piles of work in his study.

Work. And more work.

That was all he ever did now. From sunrise to midnight, he kept himself occupied—almost obsessively so. As if drowning himself in spreadsheets and endless calls would somehow erase the ache in his chest.

I couldn't blame him, though.

Not when the person he loved had walked away.

And not when he believed she didn't love him back anymore.

Still, it hurt. Watching him slowly fade like this. Watching the older brother I looked up to—who used to walk into every room with confidence and fire—become a man who barely even looked people in the eye anymore.

Daniel tried to comfort me. Said that Cole would come around eventually. That maybe this was just his way of coping.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe they both needed time to heal.

Both of them.

Because I could still see it in Eve's eyes, even if Cole couldn't.

Even now, even after the silence, the distance, the ache—they still loved each other. I just knew it.

You don't just stop loving someone like that. You don't walk away from that kind of bond unless something inside you is breaking too.

And Eve had been breaking. I just knew it. Because even right now, I was still breaking from Dylan, while Daniel healed every broken pieces. Slowly, but surely.

But right now, they were both too hurt to see each other clearly.

So I decided something.

I decided to wait.

To give them space.

To not intervene—even when every part of me wanted to fix things. Because if I pushed too hard now, I might just make things worse. I might dig the wounds deeper instead of helping them heal.

And God knows, they've both bled enough.

So I stayed quiet.