Chapter 2405 - 318: I’m Right Here (2)

Tears dripped onto the grass at her feet. She wanted to stop them, but couldn’t. She raised her hand, wiping them with the back, but the more she wiped, the more they fell.

He held her hand, not with force, simply holding it, as if grasping something he’d found again.

Flora’s tears continued to flow, unstoppable.

She wanted to speak, but her throat felt blocked, able only to utter shattered, fragmented sounds.

"I..." She finally squeezed out a word, but then paused.

Arthur gazed at her, watched her tear-streaked face, her nose reddened from crying, her shoulders trembling slightly from sobs.

She didn’t need to say anything because he understood.

She thought he wouldn’t come.

She believed he would stay in London, in the world that belonged to him, continue his role as Deputy Secretary, continue wielding influence in White Hall.

She thought she was just a passerby in his long life, a fellow traveler by chance, someone who handed him a tea cup in Kensington Palace, dispensable.

Yet now,

He stood here, holding her hand, giving her unprecedented attention.

Flora’s tears still flowed, but she suddenly didn’t want to wipe them.

She wanted him to see them, to see the self hiding under covers, silently thinking of him countless nights.

But she still lowered her head.

Dared not watch too long.

Afraid of discovering it’s a dream if she watched too long.

Afraid that watching too long, she’ll see something else in his eyes—pity, guilt, or those polite gestures more sad than rejection, the distancing.

He didn’t speak, just held her hand.

After a while, he suddenly released her hand but before Flora could feel any loss, those hands gently raised, straightening the shawl on her shoulders.

The shawl had slipped a bit, revealing her slender shoulders. He adjusted it back in place, fingers lightly grazing her jaw in the process. The touch was gentle, as light as a falling leaf, yet Flora’s heartbeat skipped.

She raised her head.

Their eyes were so close, close enough she could see her reflection in his pupils.

The reflection was small, carefully wrapped by his gaze.

The wind blew, scattering some withered needles, landing on his shoulders, in her hair.

They stood there, just like that.

For a long time.

Long enough she forgot she was crying, long enough the wind dried her tear marks, tight, somewhat uncomfortable.

Finally, she raised her hand, slow, gentle, as if afraid to disturb something.

Her hand touched his coat, that deep gray travel coat marked with mud stains. The fingertips felt the rough texture, it was wool, it was real, something belonging to him she never dared touch.

Not a dream.

Really not a dream.

Her hand clutched his coat sleeve tightly, making the joints pale.

He lowered his head, glanced at the hand holding his sleeve, then raised his eyes, looking at her.

Didn’t say anything.

But his other hand lifted, gently covering her hand back.

His palm was wide, warm, engulfing her hand entirely.

Flora’s nose ached again.

She bit her lip, struggling not to cry, but the shimmering lights in her eyes began to swirl again.

In the garden’s corner, the old butler Nolan turned away, discreetly wiping his eyes with a sleeve.

He had worked in this estate for forty years, watched Flora grow from a girl to a young woman, saw her go to London, then watched her return, but he had never seen her like this.

From a distant window of the estate’s main building, Selina’s face was entirely pressed against the glass, her nose flattened. Adelaide pulled her twice, but unable to budge her, finally joined her, pressing her face as well. The sisters looked like two strange sculptures, fixedly watching the two figures in the garden.

Adelaide lowered her voice, stomping impatiently: "Why aren’t they speaking?"

Selina glared at her: "Don’t interrupt!"

"But they’re not saying anything!"

"What’s wrong with silence? Silence can..."

Mary didn’t finish because she saw Arthur move.

He released Flora’s hand, took a step back, bent slightly, picking up the book from the ground, the one that had slipped from Flora’s lap and remained untouched.

He straightened up, gently wiped grass debris from the book pages with his sleeve, glanced at the cover.

"Hastings Case Files," Arthur Sigma’s renowned work.

Flora’s cheeks flushed as she received it from him, holding it in her hands, lowered her head, staring at the book he’d cleaned.

A tear fell again, landing on the book cover.

She hurriedly tried to wipe it, but the more she wiped, the wetter it became.

Arthur watched her, watched her flustered demeanor, watched her clumsy efforts to clean that tear, watched it seep into a small dark stain.

He reached out, gently took the book.

"I’ll hold it for you."

The most ordinary words, the simplest of phrases, yet Flora couldn’t resist.

She couldn’t speak, only nodded her head.

He placed the book into his coat pocket, then looked at her again.

The wind blew again, lifting a strand of hair by her temples, making it dance against her cheeks, brushing over her slightly red eyes.

He glanced, lifted his hand, gently tucked the strand behind her ear.

His fingers brushed against her cheeks again.

But this time, they lingered longer.

Flora closed her eyes; she could feel the warmth of his fingertips, the subtle touch, the sound of her own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—loud enough to bring her shame and embarrassment.