#chapter 32

Lando swallowed hard and inhaled slowly. And in that quiet, the ache settled in his chest.

He could have woken up like this every day. He could have believed last night was about anything but desperation, adrenaline, and grief. He could have convinced himself that he hadn’t climbed into her bed bleeding and broken—asked her to soothe both his wounds and his darkness.

But Lando knew better. Always had.

Last night had never been meant to happen. Not like that. Not ever.

Y/N stirred, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and then her eyes fluttered open—still heavy with sleep—as she blinked up at him with that uncertain, waking look. Her hair framed her face in a tangle, her cheeks flushed with warmth, and when she offered him a sleepy smile, his heart nearly stopped.

She smiled as though it were the most natural thing in the world to wake beside him. As though she could never know fear as long as she was beside him. 

He could hardly breathe.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep, her eyelids half-lidded. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead as gently as if he were handling a flame. 

“Hi.”

A breath caught in his chest as he took in the quiet weight of her gaze. The barest tenderness he could allow himself stirred in him, and before he even fully realized what he was doing, his thumb ghosted along her cheekbone, barely grazing her skin. It was as though the motion wasn’t something he controlled, but something that moved through him, a gesture as soft and fleeting as the glow of the early morning.

For a second, it felt as though the world held its breath. There, in the dim morning light, he cradled her face as though she was the most precious thing he’d ever held—her skin warm, her expression soft, eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. He watched her blink slowly, the warmth of his touch and the tenderness in his eyes passing between them silently, until she did the same, her gaze softening.

They were so close that the space between them felt like a breath waiting to be taken. She was the only thing in his world, the only thing that had ever felt real. He admired the curve of her lips, the gentle flush of color on her cheeks, and, for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to simply appreciate the warmth of her—of them.

She did the same. Her gaze traveled slowly from his lips to his eyes, and he saw her hesitate, unsure if she should say the things her eyes were clearly begging to ask. Her hand, as if it had a mind of its own, reached up to touch his chest, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt, where his heart beat too quickly for her to ignore.

He could feel the moment shifting in the space between them, pulling them closer without a single word.

He let his thumb trace her cheek again, slow and gentle. Her breath hitched. And it was there, in that quiet, that he realized he’d never needed anything more than he needed to hold this. Hold her.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice tender in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before, afraid to shatter something too fragile to be handled by someone as rough as him. There was something in the sound of her soft breaths and the feel of her warm skin that had him so careful, too aware that this was something too precious for hands as rugged as his to hold. "For answering the door... for letting me in. For putting me back together piece by piece until I became some semblance of a man again."

Her chest rose and fell with a breath, and though she said nothing, he knew she felt it too.

For a heartbeat, she looked as if she might reach out again — like last night’s intimacy still belonged to both of them. But he couldn’t let her slip back into that illusion.

He sat up instead, pressing his palms flat against the mattress to steady himself. He shifted away just enough to hide the need in his eyes. “I… I shouldn’t have stayed.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice low and resolute. “Last night… it shouldn’t have happened.”

She drew the sheet tighter around her bare shoulders, searching his face. He swallowed. “I was emotional. I’d just lost someone—someone I loved—and I didn’t know where else to go. You were kind to me, and I took advantage of that. Of you.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came. He kept his gaze anywhere but her – the divots on the sheets, the lights and shadows, the small details around her room that made it hers. “I’m not that man. I don’t cry on someone’s doorstep and end up in their bed because I can’t face my own grief. That isn’t fair—to you, or to me.”

She remained silent, and he dared not look at her.

Finally, he turned just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m grateful,” he whispered, lifting her hand and brushing his fingers across her wrist. “I mean that—thank you. You helped me when you didn’t have to.”

He paused, letting the moment hang between them. Then, he continued, his voice softer still, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Oh.

Oh.

She let the words settle like heavy stones. "...Yeah. Yeah, f’course,” she tried to bring herself to give him a convincing smile. When she looked up at him, his gaze had drifted away from her face, his mind elsewhere, somewhere far out of reach.

His fingers ghosted over her wrist once, lingering.

“It won’t happen again.”

The corners of his lips turned up in a smile that appeared sad and hopeful at one somehow. Like there was something he was losing even now, but holding on to wherever he had left, clinging to it with the hope even of something lesser in its place. And then, softer, as if he was trying to make it hurt less—

“It wasn’t real.”

Even if, for him, it might’ve been the realest thing he’d ever felt.

The silence after their conversation lingered longer than either of them knew what to do with.

The quiet stretched. Neither of them moved.

Eventually, she slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the silence between them. The sheet wrapped loosely around her frame, her back turned to him as she crossed the room in search of something to wear, her steps light, almost apologetic. She didn’t look back—not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure she could stand what she might see in his eyes.

Lando sat up against her headboard, shirtless, all tan muscles and toned shoulders with a spatter of beauty marks and purple brushstrokes constellated across the expanse of his torso. There were fingerprints on his ribs from a fight that had nothing to do with her—and yet she’d been the one to tend to the aftermath. She’d kissed those bruises. Held him while his hands shook and his mouth refused to explain.

They moved slowly—her toward the bathroom, him toward the edge of the bed — careful not to brush shoulders, not to speak unless they had to. It wasn’t hostile. Just… unsure. Like two people navigating the edges of a room neither of them had ever walked through before.

And still, she couldn’t stop noticing things.

The way his hair stuck up in places from sleep, a soft mess of curls he hadn’t bothered to smooth down. The faint imprint of her pillow against his cheek. The way he looked at the floor, not with shame, exactly, but like he was bracing for something—like he'd already begun constructing the wall he’d need to survive the day.

He was beautiful in the kind of way people didn’t expect until they really looked. Not just in the sharp angles of his face or the gold tint in his eyes, but in the unexpected softness. There was the way he hadn’t let her go entirely, even as he tried to put space between them. There was the way his voice dropped when he said her name. There was the way his thumb had lingered on her cheek like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to touch her again.

And maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe that was what this was – one night, one rupture, one version of him she wasn’t meant to see.

She told herself it was enough.

That it was already more than most people got. That she should feel lucky to have been let in at all. That being chosen by him, even in desperation, even just for a moment, was a kind of rare honor.

Because it was clear now how little he let people in. How guarded he kept himself, how practiced he was in deflecting and disappearing and never letting anyone see the seams. But he’d come to her. He’d stood bleeding at her door, eyes hollow, heart somewhere in ruins, and he’d asked for her.

And she'd been enough. For that moment, she'd somehow been the one he needed.

That thought alone was enough to do something strange to her chest.

She wandered into the kitchen and stood barefoot on the cold tile, fiddling with the buttons on her flannel — one of his, actually, she realized belatedly. He’d tossed it over a chair weeks ago and never bothered to take it back. But it had been washed with her clothes enough times now that she figured it Liam probably wouldn’t even notice.

Now she moved about her space with practiced ease. The kettle clicked on. The cupboard opened. Mugs clinked as she set out two mismatched ones. The soft morning noise that usually filled her solitude now felt different, as though the air had thickened in his presence, slowed down around the edges.

It was awkward, undeniably. The two of them were like actors fumbling through a script they hadn’t rehearsed, unsure who was meant to speak first.

When he finally padded into the kitchen, hair tousled, shirt pulled back on, she felt it all over again—that impossible ache.

Because she couldn’t stop seeing him now. Not the version the world got—the man with the hard stare and sharper tongue—but him. The curve of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, the way his brows furrowed as he stood uncertain in the doorway. The way he still hesitated in her space, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into it.

And then there were the little things. The way he fidgeted with the different flavored teas in her kitchen cabinet. How his eyes scanned her face like he was making sure she was still okay. How he stood silently while she reached past him for the sugar, like he didn’t want to crowd her.

Those small mercies. Those small signs that he cared, even now, even after everything. 

Even after drawing that line in the sand.

Y/N tried to tell herself that it was enough. That she was lucky to have been let in at all. Because it was clear now—painfully so—how rarely he let himself be seen. How much of him was locked behind iron bars no one else even knew existed.

But she had been the one he came to. She had been the one he’d needed. If only for a moment.

And maybe that was her consolation prize. Maybe that’s all she’d get.

The kettle hummed softly as he hovered awkwardly near the counter, pretending to be preoccupied with her spoons like it required delicate strategy. They both moved around each other like amateur dancers, unsure where to place their hands or how to read the next step.

“You, um… sugar?” she asked, voice catching just a little on the first word.

He blinked, then gave a small smile, almost shy. “Two. If you’re offering.”

She nodded and grabbed the little jar, spoon clinking softly as she measured it out. And just like that, the tension shifted—not gone, but quieter. Like something in the air had taken a long breath in and was holding it steady.

He stood in her kitchen like he wasn’t quite sure if he belonged there, but also didn’t want to leave. His fingers tapped the edge of the counter, restless, and she saw the way he scanned the space—the peeling corner of the cabinet, the magnet crooked on the fridge, the plant on the windowsill that she forgot to water unless it dropped dramatically.

His name’s Bernard, she’d fondly told him. 

He also remembered telling her it was a stupid name. 

This wasn’t a space meant for people like him, he thought to himself. He didn’t belong in this life of potted plants and fridge magnets and slow mornings. But there was also something familiar about it, if he looked at it from an angle. The mug he used every time he came over sat there like some miniscule, divine sign – not that he already belonged, but like he could. Like he might, if things were different. 

If he let himself.

She passed him the tea without meeting his eyes, and he accepted it with a quiet, “Thanks,” his voice was rough from sleep. Their fingers brushed just slightly at the exchange. Neither of them pulled away immediately.

“You okay?” she asked, and instantly winced. Too much. Too soon.

But he just looked at her, not with irritation or that cold, unreadable mask he wore so often—but with something gentler. A small, reluctant crack in the armor.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m better than I was yesterday, I think.”

She nodded, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “That’s something.”

A pause. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just uncertain.

He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the chipped tile beneath his bare feet. “I don’t usually…” he started, then stopped, jaw working. “I mean. I’m not good at this. At being—  erm, whatever this is.”

“I know,” she said softly.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, just full of things not said. But it was companionable, too. She liked the way he looked standing in her kitchen, hair messy, tea in hand, eyes soft in a way the world rarely got to see.

She liked that he let her see it.

She didn’t know what came next. Probably nothing. Probably this was it—an anomaly. A glitch in their dynamic. A one-time kindness born of grief and timing and need. He would pull away, like he always did. He’d wrap himself back up in distant expressions and white lies and make himself untouchable again.

Because maybe she couldn’t have all of him, but at least she had this, right?

He didn’t quite fit in her space.His steps were still a bit too loud against her wooden floors, his frame a bit too lanky for her small space.

But there were moments, fleeting ones, when she imagined he could.

The way his hand lingered on the fridge door, the way his eyes flicked toward the window like he was memorizing the view. The way his voice softened when he asked if she still liked honey in her tea.

He remembered. Of course he did.

She watched him lean against the counter, mug in hand, eyes down, and for a moment she felt suspended in time—like they existed in a pocket the rest of the world couldn’t touch. No blood. No grief. No walls between them. Just this quiet, humming morning where he didn’t have to be anyone but himself.

It wouldn’t last. She knew that.

But she would let herself have it, just for now.

Once she set down her mug of half-finished tea, she went back to moving around the kitchen with a kind of purpose — barefoot, flannel slipping from one shoulder, sleeves pushed up as she cracked eggs. 

She hummed to herself as she cooked — a soft, low, barely-there melody that drifted across the small apartment like the warmth off the stove. He didn’t recognize the tune. In fact, he didn’t think she even realized she was doing it.

The smell of toasting bread and scrambled eggs filled the air. Lando busied himself by looking around the modest living room—not intentionally snooping, simply observing. He let his eyes trace all the ways her space had changed since that first night he stepped inside, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t even unlock her door.

He wandered slowly through her space, letting his fingers trail along the edge of a shelf, a framed painting, the back of a worn sofa cushion.

It wasn’t grand or luxurious, but it had finally started to appear lived in now. She’d begun to make it a home somehow, and he’d watched it happen without quite realizing it.

There was the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch — navy, soft, clearly well-loved. A tiny stack of books on the coffee table, spine cracked open on the topmost one. A candle nearly burned down to the bottom. A pair of fuzzy socks crumpled near the armrest, like she’d kicked them off mid television episode. The scent of something warm—vanilla, maybe cinnamon—lingered faintly in the air, and it wrapped around him gently, like her voice often did.

The first time he’d stood in this apartment, she’d barely spoken. Her hands had trembled so violently that she couldn’t hold the mug he made her. The walls were blank then, any furniture sparse like she hadn’t let herself get comfortable, like she didn’t believe she was allowed to stay.

Now?

Now there were little things. A scarf thrown over the back of a chair. Mismatched mugs in the dish rack. A stack of law textbooks, dog-eared and underlined, beside a scrappy little bowl of dried lavender and a clay dish to hold her rings.

He didn’t even remember noticing the bookshelf before.

He stepped toward the bookshelf, trailing a finger lightly over the spines — well-loved copies of old classics, a few familiar law textbooks, a worn copy of The Phantom Tollbooth that made him smile for some reason. And tucked at the end of a line of books, he found a small, slightly faded photo in a worn wooden frame.

He reached for it carefully. 

The photo showed two girls—one a bit older, maybe in her early teens, and the other much younger, perhaps only a year or two. Both of them wore mismatched pajamas. The older one had her arms wrapped tightly around the smaller girl, their cheeks pressed close, smiling so wide it looked like their cheeks might’ve hurt. The little one’s smile was missing two front teeth.

It wasn’t posed or professional, just a candid moment of two young girls, frozen in time. One slightly older, all tangled hair and scraped knees, grinning with the kind of reckless joy only children knew. The younger clutched her hand and beamed up at her like she hung the moon.

The resemblance was unmistakable. 

“This is you,” Lando realized aloud. 

“What?” she asked, leaning back from the stove to try to look at what he was referring to.

“You were cute,” he said quietly, glancing toward the kitchen before looking back at the photo. “Who’s this other one?”

Y/N turned with a spatula in one hand, brow furrowed until she saw the photo in his hand. Then her face softened. “That would be my sister.”

He turned back to it. “She looks like you.”

She smiled faintly, but there was something else there. Something older, a bit tired, maybe.

“Uh, her name’s Mila. I’m pretty sure I’ve always called her Mils though,” she murmured, voice dipping into something softer, something sadder.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s everything,” she said, and the words landed in the room like truth, like prayer. “The coolest kid in the world.”

“What happened to her?” he dared to ask. Y/N paused, searching for any sign that he was asking as a formality or mere courtesy before she laid one of the innermost parts of her bare before him, but found none. His expression was careful, curious, patient. 

She turned back to the stove, voice quieter now. “She, uh, still lives with my parents. That’s kinda why I don’t really have any more recent pictures of her.”

Lando approached closer, the frame still in his hand. “She lives with your parents?”

“I left when I was nineteen,” she said, flipping a piece of toast in the pan. “So she stayed with the people I couldn’t keep living with. And I know— I know that makes me sound like a coward. But I couldn’t stay, Liam. I kept trying but I just couldn’t.”

Her voice wavered, just once.

“And I tried —I really, really tried— to bring her with me. But I was still a kid to them, and they wouldn’t let me take her.” 

She inhaled steadily before continuing, plating the toast. “I didn’t have proof, or custody, or any power at all. I just had… me.”

A beat passed.

“I left her behind. When I moved out. I— I didn’t want to. But I had to get away, you know? It wasn’t safe, not for me. Not for either of us, really. But she was still too young. And I… I couldn’t take her with me. Not legally. Not safely. So I left.”

She set a mug down a little harder than necessary.

He said nothing, sensing she wasn’t finished.

Y/n looked over her shoulder again, carefully meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t protect her. Not really. So I made a promise to myself that I’d get out, get through school, get into law, and make something of it. So that one day I could go back with something to offer – a plan, a way out. Really out. Not just from the house, but from the whole cycle. The guilt, the smallness, the silence. All of it.” 

“One day,” she breathed, but Lando had a feeling that she was saying that to herself more than him.

Lando stared at her — this girl who never asked for anything for herself, never expected comfort, who stitched herself together quietly. He pictured a younger version of her, small yet fierce, clutching her sister’s hand with all the bravery a child could fake.

And then he looked at her now — her shoulders squared, her expression one of practiced nonchalance. She had already turned back toward the kitchen, probably to stir something, probably to keep her hands busy.

Lando looked at the photo again. This time, he didn’t see just two kids. He saw her. Saw the beginning of the girl he now stood across the room from. A smaller version of Y/N, brave beyond her years, stronger than anyone should ever have had to be.

The soft shield between pain and someone smaller, more fragile.

The protector.

His chest ached with something fierce and sudden.

Someone should’ve stood beside that little girl from the photo and said, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

He wanted to be that someone now.

He wanted to keep her safe, to make sure she never had to want for anything again. He wanted to build her a world where she could laugh without worry, sleep without locking the door twice, study for her exams without wondering if someone needed saving from the life she escaped. He wanted to make sure no one could ever hurt her again.

And selfishly — he wanted to keep this version of her, soft smile and all, just like this.

Almost all his.

He stepped closer to her before she could turn away and tugged her gently toward him. She blinked up at him in surprise, hands still slightly damp after the mug she'd just rinsed.

Then, Lando Norris did what was probably one of the most foolish and selfish things he’d ever done. He wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her into him—close, warm, steady. Tentatively, as if unsure he was doing it correctly, he forced himself to lean into the embrace and tuck his chin over Y/N’s head as she fit perfectly against him like he was anchoring her there. 

Before she could register what had happened, her body was already relaxing into his, some subconscious recognition of a presence as perfect for her as the person it belonged to.

It was the breath of air reaching her lungs in what felt like months.

“You will,” he murmured against her hair, before leaning back to look down at her. “We will, yeah?”

She looked up at him, confused.

“M’gonna make sure you keep that promise. I don’t care what it takes, alright? You are gonna study your ass off, and we are going to make damn sure you’re the best fuckin’ lawyer this city’s ever seen,” he said, his tone firmer now. “You’re gonna have that life, and when you go back for her, s’not gonna be with empty hands.”

She didn’t respond at first, just let her forehead drop gently against his chest. One of her hands found the hem of his shirt, fingertips curling lightly into the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

This feels too good to be true.

“You really think so?” she asked, muffled.

He exhaled, hesitantly letting one hand trail soothing circles along her back. 

“I know so,” he said firmly

She said nothing at first. Just let herself be held, breathing in sync with him, cheek pressed against his chest like maybe this was the safest place in the world. And for a moment, it was.

He didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t want her to ever feel unsafe again.

And god help him—he didn’t want anyone else to be the one who got to keep her safe. Didn’t want anyone else to see her soft smile in the kitchen light. Didn’t want anyone else to earn that little piece of her trust.

But he didn’t say that.

He just held her tighter.

And in that quiet, the morning stilled around them – not quite a beginning, not yet an ending.

Just something real, for as long as it was allowed to last.

All the makings for breakfast that she’d had on hand were set out at the small kitchen table, their legs tangled beneath mismatched chairs. By the time they sat down to eat, the light through the window had gone soft and gold. The kind that kissed the tops of furniture and warmed the mug in her hands, pretending for a little while that the world outside didn’t exist.

Liam looked entirely out of place and somehow completely at home, bare-faced and hair tousled, wearing a t-shirt that wasn’t his and sipping from the same mug he did everytime. She always told him he could use any of the other ones in her collection, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he just took a quiet sip and leaned back like he was trying to pretend this was normal.

It wasn’t, not really. But also maybe it was, in a parallel life where he wasn’t this person wrapped in danger and decisions and she wasn’t made of this soft starlight and stubborn dreams. Maybe in that life, breakfast like this was a Thursday thing. 

Maybe even an everyday thing.

After plating two matching plates off eggs, hash brown, and toast, Y/N handed one to him and tried to avoid eye contact. She tried not to wonder if this was the last time he’d be here like this — if the bubble would pop the second he walked out that door.

When she set her own plate down and tucked in her chair, getting ready to eat, Liam glanced at her place before giving her a confused look.

Without a word, he slid his plate toward her and swapped them out. Gave her his hash browns and took the eggs for himself. 

She blinked. “How’d you—?”

“You weren’t gonna eat them,” he said casually, already chewing.

“You don’t know that.”

“I dunno why you even made ‘em f’yourself. You don’t even like eggs,” he said flatly.

Her mouth opened in protest.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I could like eggs,” she argued weakly, sounding unconvincing even to herself. By now, she was mostly just arguing for the principle of it.

He tilted his head, unamused. “You keep tryin’ to like eggs, but you don’t. Don’t lie to me after I’ve seen you pretend to like café egg bites and then hide them in the napkins.”

She tried not to grin, but failed.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can have them, happy?”

She nudged the plate closer to him and gestured to it with a grandiose wave, as if she were doing him some great big favor by giving him the food she’d never wanted to eat in the first place.

He plucked the remaining scrambled eggs off her plate without a word and dropped a slice of buttered toast in their place — his perfectly golden, a bit over-toasted just the way she liked it. He didn’t even blink. Just handed her the plate back and resumed sipping his very bad coffee.

She stared at the toast. Then at him.

“You didn’t even ask.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have to. You picked around them at brunch that one time too. When you dragged us to that ridiculous bougie place with the edible flowers.”

Her expression softened—half amusement, half something she couldn’t quite name. “That was months ago.”

“I remember,” was all he said, shrugging.

She paused. “And I like your hash browns?”

“You stole half of mine that day,” he said between bites, his aching body too happy at the prospect of getting to enjoy a warm, home-cooked meal. “You said yours were ‘emotionally unsatisfying.’”

The breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe you remember that,” she flushed. After a moment, she asked quietly, “Do you always do that?”

He looked up. “...Do what?”

“Notice things. Like that.”

He looked like he was going to deny it at first. But then his expression shifted—barely, subtly. He tapped a finger against the side of his mug, not meeting her eyes. He seemed to consider it for a moment.

“Only the important shit, I guess? I dunno. But of course I notice you,” he shrugged casually, before reaching for another bite.

She felt the blush rise hot in her chest and looked down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her toast.

He peeked up at her as he leaned down to take another bite, pleased with himself, and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth like it was a personal victory.

She narrowed her eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re so smug.”

He merely nodded, like a dramatic acceptance of his fate. “Speaking of important things, can I tell you somethin’?” he asked, his voice a little rough.

She looked up.

“This coffee’s actually crap.”

She looked up, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“It is,” he insisted, holding up the mug. “It’s burnt and bitter and tastes like regret.”

She gaped. “I made it!”

He grinned, all teeth. “Still crap.”

“You literally watched me make it.”

He gestured toward her, triumphant. “Exactly. Which means I know your actual coffee is good. This”—he motioned to the sad, steaming mug—“is a betrayal. This is sabotage. I trusted you.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not my café, Liam, it’s my kitchen. You want fancy, rich-people, €7 espresso? Go buy me a machine then.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, too easily. “Top of the line. As long as you’re the one using it.”

“You better. How dare you come into my apartment and insult my coffee machine?” She threw a napkin at his head and he let it hit him, not even flinching.

He just rolled his eyes and let her.

She didn’t need to know that hated the taste of coffee, always had. She didn’t need to know that somewhere along the way, he’d learned to identify a cup of coffee made by her hands by taste alone, because it was the only one he could seem to tolerate.

“Might have to, out of survival,” he said, mock solemn. “Because every time I try to have coffee in this place, I get this… shitty hot bean water.”

She laughed, and something in his chest loosened.

“You literally called my pour-over technique witchcraft that one time I made you one,” she insisted through her smile. “Then asked for a second cup.”

“Yeah, well,” he leaned back in the chair a little, arms crossed. “The witch got me addicted. To good coffee.”

She tilted her head, grinning. “Is that your way of saying you do like my coffee?”

“What? Of course not,” he scoffed, like she’d suggested something absolutely preposterous. He went to take another sip, smiling behind the rim of his mug. “S' jus’ my way of saying if I ever open a café, you’re the only one allowed to touch the beans.”

She laughed again, and the sound settled something inside him, like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until then.

For a few minutes after that, they just ate. Forks scraping quietly. Steam curling off mugs. The distant hum of the city beyond the window—cars, morning birds, the faint clatter of a garbage truck in the alley.

She looked at him then, properly. She took in the lazy sprawl of him across her tiny kitchen chair, the quiet smirk tugging at his lips. He looked at her too.

It was oddly domestic. It felt strangely normal.

He didn’t know how long he had in this little pocket of peace. Didn’t know what the day would bring once he left this apartment and re-entered his world.

The aftermath would be waiting - Leclerc. Questions. Maybe blood. Maybe worse.

But here, now—he still had this. Her, in this flannel with the little tea stain near the hem. Her, in this light. Her, laughing like last night hadn’t happened. Like maybe she’d carry the weight for him just a little longer if it meant he could breathe for a moment more.

He took a long sip of his coffee and leaned back in the chair, wondering if this is what home was supposed to look like all along.

a/n: i'm sorry if this one feels too exposition-y... hopefully it's still readable tho?

Her eyes fell to the white box on the coffee table. “What’s that?” she asked, needing a distraction.

Mira shrugged, “I dunno, it was on your doorstep.”

Rumi reached for it, only to be stopped by Zoey’s hand gripping her wrist. “Wait, what if it’s a bomb?” Zoey asked, eyes wide and bouncing from the box to Rumi.

Mira chuckled, “It’s not a bomb, Zo.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I picked it up and it doesn’t feel like a bomb.”

“Oh and you know what bombs feel like?”

“I know that they’re likely to be heavier than that.”