All That I Hide

I laughed. I kissed. I said the right things — the expected things.

The evening in the city felt almost hand-painted. The deep blue sky hadn’t yet surrendered to full darkness, and below, the lights shimmered like a stage — each window, each car carrying its own small script.

On the restaurant’s terrace, it was nearly empty. Soft music drifted through the air, and behind the glass partitions came the muted clinking of glasses. Tilda leaned against the railing, elbows resting on the cool metal, her gaze fixed on the glittering streets below. There was something fragile in her posture, distant — as if she were part of the view, but not quite belonging to it.

Warm air curled around her skin. Beneath her blazer, the dress barely touched her body, and for a moment she felt as though she were floating inside the evening, not entirely solid. Calm. Still. Thoughtless — in a way that almost felt clean.

“I found you,” came a voice behind her — soft, familiar.

A moment later, his hands slid around her waist. Confident, but gentle. Grounding.

“Lost you in the sea of toasts and Arthur’s endless speeches,” Vincent said.

She didn’t turn, but the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.

“Just needed some quiet,” she said. “It’s beautiful up here.”

He stepped closer, his chin brushing her shoulder. For a while he said nothing, just stood there with her, breathing the same air.

“You remember? It was here. That night after the project launch. You were standing just like this,” he murmured, tracing her shoulder lightly. “And I just walked up and kissed you.”

Tilda let out a low chuckle.

“That was bold.”

“Reckless,” he corrected. “But you didn’t pull away.”

“Because I’d had expensive wine… and you’d made quite the impression.”

He smiled, tilting his head slightly.

“And now?”

“Now it’s just… nice.”

Her voice carried that soft edge — gentle, almost wistful. She looked back down at the city.

He didn’t reply. He only pressed in closer, his hand moving slowly along her arm. She placed her hand over his.

Their lips met without urgency. Slow. Familiar. Everything around them seemed to soften — the night, the lights, even the distant hum of traffic below.

A minute passed before Tilda leaned away, still holding his wrist.

“They’re probably wondering where we are. We should go back.”

“Just a minute,” Vincent said quietly. “Back then, I was just watching you — laughing, talking — and I knew if I didn’t make a move, I’d regret it.”

“So you did.”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“It wasn’t calculated. It just felt right.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

“Not even close.”

Her gaze dropped for a beat.

“I was scared too,” she admitted. “How fast it all felt right with you. That kind of quiet… I wasn’t used to it.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Still feel it?”

She leaned into him, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Still do.”

As they returned to the table, the warmth of the evening seemed to settle around her like fabric. Voices rose and fell in loose waves. Someone clapped Vincent on the back; another shifted to make room for Tilda.

Glasses were already being refilled. Some were tipsy, others hovering just at the edge. The night had slipped into that comfortable space between noise and intimacy.

Vincent stood, raising his glass with that slow, assured smile.

“Friends,” he began, “I know everyone’s waiting for Arthur to ruin the mood with painfully nostalgic ’90s karaoke, but give me one more minute of sobriety.”

Laughter rippled across the table. Arthur threw his head back dramatically.

“Tonight, we’re not just celebrating the end of a project. We’re celebrating the team. And—” he turned toward Tilda, his expression softening just slightly, “—its heart.”

He held her gaze a second longer than necessary.

“To the one without whom none of this would’ve happened. To Tilda — our lead designer. For her taste, her focus, and that quiet strength you don’t always see, but always feel.”

“Bravo, Tilda!” someone called.

Applause rose around the table. Glasses lifted. Voices layered over one another.

Tilda laughed and dipped her head, her eyes catching the light — from the terrace lamps, from the wine, from the warmth of it all. Everything looked exactly as it should.

For a split second — almost invisible — Leann hesitated. Her hand hovered before reaching for her glass. Her eyes lingered on Tilda, unreadable. Then she laughed too quickly, lifted her glass a beat too late, and nudged a wine bottle just enough for it to tip and spill a thin line across the table.

“To our star!” she said brightly — just slightly louder than necessary.

No one seemed to notice. Or if they did, it dissolved into the swell of celebration.

“Okay, geniuses,” Arthur announced, raising his voice, “now that the project of the century is done, where the hell are we going next?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because if you think I’m going home to sleep, you clearly underestimate my addiction to fun. And alcohol. And I’m taking Vincent’s credit card.”

More laughter.

Vincent lifted his glass.

“Only if you leave your soul as collateral.”

Tilda laughed along, her fingers resting lightly on Vincent’s knee, tracing the fabric of his trousers in a distracted, almost absent gesture. She felt light. Composed. Exactly where she was supposed to be.

The night carried on — just as she had imagined it would.

The apartment greeted them with warmth and soft light. Inside, everything felt charged — the alcohol still in their blood, the adrenaline from the speech, their hands unwilling to separate.

Vincent shut the door and pulled her toward him without hesitation. His lips found her neck, breath warm against her skin. She tilted her head back, fingers sliding from the lapels of his jacket to his shirt. He shrugged the blazer from her shoulders and let it fall.

“Too long,” he murmured against her ear.

“Take this off,” she said, already reaching for him.

The zipper slid down her back. The dress fell quietly to the floor. Lace. Bare skin. His hands moved with familiarity — not rushed, but certain.

Everything accelerated from there, as if their bodies already knew where this would end.

He lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around his waist. The bedroom door knocked softly against the wall as he carried her inside.

On the bed, the pace shifted. Slower. He knelt, kissed the inside of her thigh. She exhaled, fingers threading into his hair.

“Lower.”

He did.

Her body arched instinctively, breath breaking in uneven patterns. His hands anchored her, steady and deliberate.

When he rose again, tension had gathered between them, heavy and unmistakable. She reached for him first, fingers sliding along his length with quiet confidence.

“Lie back,” he said softly.

He entered her in one smooth movement. She gasped, then pulled him closer, legs tightening around him.

The rhythm built — deeper, fuller, more insistent. Her breath fractured around his name. His hands moved across her body as though mapping it again.

For a while there was nothing else — not the city, not tomorrow, not the version of themselves that would wake in the morning.

Only this.

When it broke, it broke all at once — breathless, unguarded.

Afterward, they lay tangled together. His hand rested on her stomach, his chin brushing her hair.

“I want this every day,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you leaving in the morning.”

The words shifted something.

Tilda went still — just slightly. Not enough for him to notice.

“You sure you can handle me every day?” she asked lightly.

He smiled against her skin. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She rolled over him again, playful, deflecting.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she whispered. “We’re not done tonight.”

He followed her lead.

And for a while, it was easier to stay inside the heat than step into whatever waited outside it.

The morning was cool.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, touching the windowsills with pale warmth. Tilda left before he woke, moving quietly through the apartment.

She hadn’t wanted to go.

And yet, she did.

Now she stood in her kitchen, barefoot in an oversized shirt, eating grapes straight from a bowl. The suitcase lay open on the couch, swallowing the last of her clothes. Heels by the bed. Sunglasses. Silk dresses. Sunscreen. Medication.

Among the bottles — a small white container. Nearly empty.

She checked the capsules. Just under half.

“It’s only a week,” she murmured, slipping it into her cosmetic bag.

Outside, Vincent waited with two coffees.

“I thought I’d help,” he said. “Or at least squeeze in a farewell quickie.”

“You’re impossible,” she laughed. “Our flight’s in two hours.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Three minutes isn’t impressive.”

He grinned and lifted the suitcase without arguing.

She didn’t invite him inside.

He didn’t mention it.

In the car, they talked about the vacation — what they’d packed, what they hadn’t, who would absolutely not open a laptop. Funk played softly from the speakers. The highway shimmered under the rising sun.

“Ready for the southern inferno?” he asked.

“You promised wine, sea, and palm trees.”

“Oh, that’s included. Along with endless questions about when I’m getting married.”

She smirked. “Want me to whisper something inappropriate at dinner?”

“Deal.”

“What’s your brother like?”

“Valerio? Sweet. Reliable. Completely in love. Textbook.”

“Suspiciously perfect.”

“Exactly.”

The city faded behind them.

Palm trees. Open roads. Heat waiting somewhere ahead.

Distant. Foreign.

Beautiful — or at least, it should have been.