Liam
The silence in the car was not the peaceful kind.
It was the kind that filled your lungs with glass and made every breath a careful choice.
Esme sat beside him, folded into herself like something fragile trying to hold shape. Her arms were tight across her stomach, her eyes locked on the blurred city lights as they slid past the windshield. Liam kept his hands on the wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched, the image of those men seared behind his eyes.
She hadn't said much since she whispered, "They didn't… but they were going to."
He hadn't pushed.
His thoughts raced, over and over again—how close it had been. How late he had been.
If he had waited a minute longer. If she hadn't taken that long route. If those men—
He stopped the thought before it spiraled.
"Almost there," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Just a slow blink, her reflection in the window soft and haunted. She looked like a ghost stitched in shadows and streetlight.
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Esme
I should've sensed it.
I should've known something was coming.
Her thoughts had no edges, just loops. The streetlight's flicker on the windshield made it feel like she was underwater.
But even in her fog, she could feel it. Liam's quiet rage. Not directed at her, but it clung to him like sweat. She could see it in his grip, in how he couldn't quite stop checking the rearview mirror, as if those shadows might return.
And… she hated to admit it, but a part of her—the soft, dangerous part—felt safer because of him.
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They pulled into her street. The porch light was off. A bad sign. She always left it on.
He parked at the curb, turning off the engine, but neither moved.
"I'll walk you to the door," he said, voice low, unreadable.
Esme turned her head slowly. "You don't have to."
He met her gaze for the first time in the last twenty minutes. "I know. But I want to."
She looked away. "Fine."
They stepped out into the quiet. No wind. No sounds but the crunch of gravel under their feet. Liam's eyes swept the street automatically, training surfacing like instinct.
She was walking faster now, like she wanted to be anywhere but here.
At the door, she fumbled for her keys. He stayed a step behind, hands in his coat pockets, heart still hammering.
"I can get you water," she said abruptly, not quite meeting his eyes. "Before you leave."
He hesitated. "Sure."
The key turned. The door creaked open—
—and Esme stopped.
So did Liam.
The hallway was wrong.
The air was wrong.
He stepped beside her.
Shelves overturned. Vases shattered. Dirt smeared into the floorboards. The scent of lavender—her lavender—gone.
Esme didn't speak. Her body jolted into motion like something had yanked her forward.
"No, no—"
She ran.
"Esme—"
He followed fast, barely catching the direction she turned. Down the hall, left. A room. He burst in seconds behind her.
She was on the floor.
A wooden box lay open, its contents strewn across the carpet like a massacre. Silk scarves ripped in half. Beaded necklaces snapped apart. Everything delicate torn and trampled.
Esme clutched a pale scarf, her fingers curled so tightly around it her knuckles were bloodless. Her whole body trembled.
Then—
"No!"
A scream ripped from her throat. Animal. Shattered.
Liam froze in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest.
She wasn't just crying. She was breaking.
And then she folded forward, sobs tearing through her, her forehead pressed to the ruins of her memories.
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Liam
He didn't know what this was. He had an idea of who those belonged to, but he didn't want to jump into conclusions.
And he knew the sound of grief when it broke open inside someone.
He knelt slowly beside her, unsure.
And still, he didn't touch her.
Until she leaned toward him.
That's when he moved—arms around her, pulling her into him.
Her breath hitched against his chest. Shaking, she clawed the scarf tighter to her, burying her face in the wreckage of what used to be.
"I—I kept them safe," she explained, like she was trying to prove something, voice cracking through the tears. "All this time. I— I hid them. Why would they—?"
Liam said nothing. Just held her tighter.
She didn't need explanations. She needed a place to fall apart.
The seconds bled into minutes.
——————————————————
Esme
Her scent is gone.
Her hands touched those scarves. Her perfume clung to them. That soft oil she used on her wrists.
Now it was just the smell of wood and dust and intruders.
She hadn't cried for her mother in years. Not like this.
It felt like she was dying again.
And Liam… Liam held her like he understood that.
——————————————————
When her sobs slowed, Liam finally spoke.
"You can't stay here," he said, softly. "Not tonight. Not after this."
She shook her head slowly, voice hoarse. "I don't have anywhere else."
He didn't hesitate.
"Then come with me."
She blinked up at him.
"It's safer that way. Just until we figure out who did this."
Esme's throat tightened. Her gaze dropped back to the scarf in her lap. She ran her fingers gently across the torn edge like it could stitch itself whole again.
Then she nodded.
"Okay."
——————————————————
Liam stood, gently helping her to her feet. Her legs were unsteady.
She didn't ask if he'd seen her break. She knew he had.
She didn't apologize for it either.
She just started packing.