The morning after was too still.
Esme stood in the unfamiliar kitchen, her hands resting on the counter. Pale light filtered through the blinds, cutting the room into slices of gold and shadow. She hadn't slept. Not really. Her body had given out from exhaustion sometime between sobs and silence, curled under Liam's comforter that still smelled like cedar and something faintly bitter—gunpowder or guilt.
Her fingers curled around the mug Liam had given her. The tea had gone cold hours ago, forgotten. She didn't remember what it tasted like.
The door creaked gently behind her.
She didn't need to turn.
"Morning," Liam said quietly.
She only nodded.
He stood there for a moment, like he was unsure if he should cross into the space. Eventually, he moved beside her, grabbed his own mug. The coffeemaker sputtered in the silence. She watched him pour the dark liquid, careful, precise—like everything else about him.
When he slid her a fresh cup of coffee, she looked up in surprise.
"You looked like you needed something stronger," he said, soft.
She took it without a word. Her fingers brushed his. They both stilled.
He didn't pull away.
Neither did she.
But the moment passed, quick as a blink. He stepped back, clearing his throat, his expression shuttering.
"How's your wrist?" she asked after a moment. Her voice cracked a little from disuse.
Liam blinked. "My…?"
She nodded toward his right hand. The wrist was slightly red and swollen beneath his watch.
"Oh," he murmured. "Old injury. It acts up sometimes."
"Let me see."
"You don't have to—"
"I know," she interrupted. "But I want to," she said, throwing his words from the previous night back at him.
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he offered her his arm.
Esme set her coffee down and stepped closer. The space between them collapsed, until her breath warmed the air above his skin. She moved carefully, like touching something sacred. She turned his wrist over, fingers cool against the warmth of him. He hissed slightly as she pressed along the bone.
"Sprain?" she asked.
He gave a tight nod. "Years ago."
She stepped away for a moment, disappearing into the guest bathroom. When she returned, she had a small roll of bandage in her hand—one of the few things she managed to save from her apartment. Her mother used to keep it for delicate stems.
Liam watched her in silence as she wrapped his wrist with slow, deliberate movements. Her fingers brushed his skin, and neither of them spoke. The tension in the room was no longer sharp, but something quieter. Something that curled around them like smoke.
"There," she said finally, stepping back. "Don't strain it."
"Thank you," he said, and it sounded like he meant more than just the bandaging.
Esme looked up at him. His eyes were unreadable, but not unfeeling.
For a moment, she wanted to ask.
Who are you, when no one's watching?
But instead, she turned away and reached for her mug.
——————————————————
That evening, the apartment flickered in candlelight.
There had been a storm warning earlier in the day—summer thunder growling over the horizon like a beast just out of sight. The power had flickered twice before finally giving out completely just after sundown.
Liam lit a few candles from the emergency drawer and placed them carefully around the living room.
Esme stood near the window, watching the storm clouds build behind the skyline.
"I don't remember the last time I just… stood still," she said quietly.
Liam didn't reply at first. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, watching her with an expression she couldn't decipher.
"You don't have to keep moving to prove you're alive," he said eventually.
She turned her head. "Is that what you do?"
His gaze didn't waver. "I used to. I still might."
Their eyes held for a moment too long. Lightning arced in the distance, painting her face in flashes of silver-blue.
Esme looked away first.
She walked back into the kitchen, but paused at the threshold. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded.
"Why did you follow me that night?"
A beat.
Then: "Because I couldn't not."
She stared at him. "That's not an answer."
"I know," he admitted. "But it's the truth."
She didn't push further. She could feel the weight of all the things they weren't saying pressing between them like a second storm.
Instead, she reached for a candle and brought it closer to the table. The flickering glow reflected in the glass, casting strange shapes over the walls.
They sat across from each other in silence.
Then Liam said quietly, "I almost asked you something this morning."
Esme blinked. "What?"
"About your mother."
Silence stretched.
"I almost asked," he repeated, "but I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would."
Esme looked down at her hands.
"My mother… was a lot of things," she said softly. "But she loved me. She taught me how to make things grow—even in places nothing should. She said flowers speak. If you listen long enough, you'll hear them say everything no one else will."
Liam was still. "What did they say to you?"
"That day?" Esme whispered. "That I was alone."
The silence between them turned solemn, not uncomfortable.
"She wore this one scarf," she continued. "White lilies embroidered in the corners. She used to tie it in her hair when she was working. I kept it in a box. Safe. And they—"
Her voice broke.
"They tore it," she said, barely audible. "Tore it like it meant nothing."
Liam didn't reach for her.
He didn't say it would be okay.
Instead, he just said: "I'm sorry."
The words hit deeper than she expected. Honest. Bare. No fix, no false comfort. Just presence.
She closed her eyes. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this."
"Because you needed to say it," he murmured. "And I was here."
——————————————————
It was late when she finally pulled away from the candlelight and went to bed.
But sleep didn't come.
The dark was too quiet. Too loud. Her thoughts spun, twisted in memory and ghosts. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a footstep. Every shift of the shadows on the wall became hands reaching for her mother's things.
She dreamed of fire.
Of ash curling from silk and lace.
Of petals turning black at her touch.
When she jerked awake, breath caught in her throat, there were tears already on her face.
The room was dark again, save for a single candle on the dresser.
She sat up slowly.
Her heart wouldn't calm.
There was no one in the room.
But then she noticed it.
The shadow outside her door.
She rose, quietly, padding across the floor. The door creaked softly as she opened it.
Liam was slumped against the wall beside her room, still in the clothes from earlier. His head leaned back, mouth slightly parted, one arm resting across his stomach.
He had stayed.
He had stayed there the whole night.
Watching the hallway.
Guarding her door.
Her chest ached. Not with grief this time, but something softer. More dangerous.
She didn't wake him.
She just stood there in the doorway, watching the man who—despite everything—chose to stay.