Rain streaked the windshield, wipers squeaking in protest as you drove. Steven sat stiffly in the passenger seat, twisting his cap in his lap like it might come apart in his hands.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked, voice lilting with that strange London accent.

You gripped the wheel tighter. “Because my husband is sitting in my car pretending to be someone else.”

Steven blinked. “Husband? Oh, no, you’ve got the wrong bloke. I’d remember saying ‘I do,’ wouldn’t I?”

A bitter laugh slipped out. “You don’t even remember filing the divorce papers?”

His smile faltered. “Divorce?” He glanced toward the rearview mirror, where Marc’s reflection glowered back—silent, tense. “Right. That’s him. Marc. He’s telling me not to talk to you. Says you’re—complicating.”

Your chest tightened. “Complicated enough for him to vanish. To cut me off like I didn’t matter.”

Steven winced, shaking his head. “Don’t pin that on me. I’m not him. I wouldn’t have done that.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “If it were me—” He stopped, eyes darting again to the mirror. Marc’s stare was cutting, warning.

But Steven forced the words out anyway. “If it were me, I’d never walk away.”

The car fell silent except for the drumming rain. You pulled onto your street, parked, and sat there with the engine humming low.

Finally, Steven turned to you, voice gentle. “Then don’t look at me like I’m him. Please. Just for tonight.”

⸻

Inside, the apartment felt too small, too crowded with ghosts. You tossed your keys onto the counter while Steven lingered near the door, dripping water onto the rug.

“Sorry about the mess,” you muttered, though the place was spotless. Old habit.

Steven gave a small smile. “It’s cozy. Not like mine. Just a flat with one goldfish and a bed that creaks every time I blink.”

That almost pulled a laugh from you. Almost. You handed him a towel, watching him fumble as he rubbed his curls dry. Marc never would’ve looked so disarming.

Steven drifted toward the shelves, fingertips brushing along spines. “Blimey. You’ve got all sorts—Egyptology, poetry, even a whole section on astronomy. This is brilliant.” He pulled a battered volume free, eyes lighting up. “Do you know how rare this edition is?”

You crossed your arms. “Marc never noticed.”

Steven turned, book still in hand, and his voice softened. “Well, I notice. I could spend hours in here.”

Something in your chest ached—anger, longing, maybe both.

“Tea?” Steven asked suddenly, as though the offer might fix everything.

You stared. “You show up in the middle of a storm, dredge up everything I’ve tried to bury, and you want tea?”

He grinned, sheepish. “It always helps, doesn’t it?”

Against your better judgment, you filled the kettle. The quiet whistled between you both as steam curled into the air. Steven busied himself with your stack of mail, trailing damp sleeves everywhere, acting like he belonged.

Marc’s reflection caught in the darkened window, arms folded, jaw hard. He didn’t belong at all.

Steven finally set the envelopes down, his voice gentler. “He hurt you, didn’t he? Marc.”

Your hand trembled pouring water into the cup. You steadied it with a sharp breath.

“He told me to stay out of it,” Steven went on, eyes earnest. “But I can’t. You deserve better.”

You slammed the cup onto the table, hot tea sloshing over the rim. “And you think you’re better? You’ve got his face. His hands.”

Steven’s dark eyes held yours. “But not his choices.”

You almost laughed, bitter and broken, but something in his expression stopped you. The way he looked at you like staying was the easiest thing in the world.

In the window, Marc’s reflection turned away, fists clenching at his sides.

And you stood there—between the man you had lost, the one haunting your glass, and the stranger who wore his face but not his sins.