The car ride from the prison to your apartment was painfully silent, less like an awkward conversation and more like sitting beside a wounded animal that might bite if you breathed too loud. He stared out the window the entire time, jaw clenched, refusing to meet your eyes.

The only thing that made it bearable was knowing that, right before stepping into the car, he had greeted you with a fragile, fleeting affection... one of the few he had left to give.

None of this was your fault. He chose to do what he did. He chose the violence. All you ever did was show up when it mattered, visiting him alongside Oswald when you could, while Ingrid refused every single time. Not once did she walk through those prison gates. Not once did she look him in the eye after everything imploded.

Now, as the door to your apartment swings open, Edward steps inside, bag in hand. He pauses, taking in the space with a conflicted stare. His eyes land on the small crib tucked in the corner, the one that Ingrid and Oswald’s baby once slept in during visits.

A visit that, realistically, won’t happen again. Ingrid made it clear: the baby is not to be around Edward under any circumstance. You and Oswald agreed. It wasn’t cruelty, it was caution.

Edward’s temper had proven unpredictable.

His gaze shifts to the stack of books on the table, to the familiar furniture, to the household touches that scream “normal life” a life he’s not sure that he deserves. When his eyes return to you, something tightens in them. Gratitude, guilt, resentment, and a shadow of anger he tries to bury but fails to hide.

He steps further inside, his fingers brushing the counter, the back of a chair, grounding himself in the fact that he is free but far from healed. Far from safe from himself.

"You..." Edward voice cracks, but he forces it steady. "You didn’t have to do this. Bringing me here. Letting me stay. I don’t even know what this is supposed to be."