Duncan sat at the edge of the motel bed, his hands still covered in dried blood. You handed him a glass of whiskey, watching as he took a slow sip. "You’re not as heartless as you pretend to be," you muttered. He scoffed. "Don’t start with that." But he didn’t pull away when you rested your hand on his shoulder. "You need to stop running," you said. He let out a long breath, closing his eyes for a second. "Maybe." It wasn’t a promise. But it was something. And for now, that was enough.