The morning unfurled with a strange hush, like the city itself had paused to catch its breath. In Liam's apartment, the air was thick with unspoken things. Esme moved slowly through the unfamiliar kitchen, careful not to make noise, careful not to disturb the balance of something that felt like it could shatter with a single word.
Her fingers grazed the edge of the counter as she reached for a glass of water. She didn't drink it. Her eyes wandered instead.
That's when she saw it.
The gun and the badge.
Lying on the small table by the door. Clean. Ordinary. Deadly.
It didn't surprise her—of course it didn't. She knew who he was. What he was. She'd known since the first time he introduced himself with that low, assessing voice and eyes that saw more than they should. But knowing and seeing were different things.
The badge glinted in the morning light, catching on its engraved seal like it was daring her to remember where she stood. What she had done. What she was still capable of.
She turned away.
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Liam woke with a dull ache in his neck and the ghost of Esme's scream echoing in the hollow of his bones.
The hallway floor hadn't been kind. But he hadn't moved.
When he stood, he saw the softest imprint where her door had leaned shut. A line between them, thin and invisible, but solid all the same.
He didn't know why he'd stayed. Or maybe he did, and the knowing was the thing that unsettled him most.
He walked to the kitchen.
Stopped.
Esme was at the sink.
She didn't notice him at first. Her attention was focused on something in her hands. A scarf.
Not the scarf. This on was different. The edge was torn, the fabric worn and fragile. And stained.
The red pigment on the off-white scarf could've been from a flower. It could've been blood. Whatever it was, he wasn't sure if he was interested at the moment.
The stain wasn't much—just a shadow, barely there—but it was enough. The kind of thing that clung. The kind of thing that left questions.
She ran water over it gently, carefully dabbing the corner with soap and cloth, like she'd done it a hundred times before.
Like she'd cleaned that stain out of fabric before.
Liam didn't speak.
His badge and gun sat like anchors on the table behind her.
She finally looked up.
Their eyes locked.
His hazel gaze flicked to the scarf, then back to her.
She didn't offer an explanation.
He didn't ask.
——————————————————
Later, she stood near the window again, fingers lightly tracing the glass. The scarf was drying over the back of a chair, just out of reach.
"You didn't ask," she said finally, without turning.
Liam looked up from where he sat on the couch. "No."
"You wanted to."
"Yeah."
Silence.
Then she turned, slowly, like she wasn't sure if her body would follow her thoughts. Her eyes were darker in this light, like dusk had made a home in them.
She crossed the room without speaking.
He stood up, heart ticking out of rhythm.
Her hand reached out first. Just the tips of her fingers brushing the side of his jaw. His breath hitched. She traced the line of stubble along his cheek with the kind of gentleness that didn't belong in a world like this.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then his hand came up, slow, tentative. His fingers curled against her waist. Barely touching. Waiting.
Their faces were close.
Too close.
Not enough.
Liam leaned in.
Almost.
She let him get that close.
Let the breath between them twist into something fragile and electric.
Then, softly, she pulled back.
His hand dropped.
So did hers.
She looked away, a flush in her cheeks that wasn't from the warmth of the room.
"I can't," she whispered.
He nodded. "I know."
She turned and walked toward the hallway. Her steps were soundless. Her shadow stretched behind her like something trying to hold on.
Liam stood there, fists clenched and then released. Once. Twice. The scarf still hung nearby, ivory and stained, fragile and defiant. Like her.
——————————————————
That night, they lay in separate rooms.
Two beds.
Two doors.
One wall.
Esme stared at the ceiling, her fingers curled into the sheets. The moonlight cut across the room in broken shards. Her chest ached in places she thought had long since gone numb.
She thought of her mother.
Of the box.
Of Liam's hand on her waist.
Of the way she had wanted to close the space between them.
She turned her face into the pillow and didn't cry. Not tonight. Not again.
——————————————————
Liam lay awake with his arm over his eyes.
The city hummed beyond the walls. But all he could hear was the echo of her breath as she stepped back.
The scarf. The silence. The blood.
And the space she'd left between them.
He didn't sleep.
Neither did she.