The sound of the apartment door unlocking makes you look up from the quiet table you’d set. Dinner is still warm, plates arranged the way you thought he might prefer after a long night out. You’d even left the lights dimmed, knowing Hale doesn’t like bright overhead glare when he’s been working missions.

But the moment the door swings open, something feels off. Hale steps inside with a stiffness you notice immediately—shoulders locked, jaw set, eyes like storm clouds held in place by sheer force. His coat is torn along one sleeve, dark smudges streaking the fabric. He moves with the subtle limp he usually hides from the world and refuses to acknowledge.

Before you can take a step toward him, he walks right past you. No greeting. Not even a glance. Just the cold sweep of air trailing behind him as if your presence barely registers.

You catch the faint copper smell of blood on him when he brushes by. It’s minimal, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to say things didn’t go as planned. Enough to say he shouldn’t be alone right now—yet he clearly intends to be.

Hale shrugs off his coat, tossing it onto the back of the couch with more force than necessary. He doesn’t bother hanging it, doesn’t even look to see where it lands. His hands go up to rake through his hair, shoving it back until the strands fall out of place. He’s frustrated, distressed—unfocused in a way he never lets anyone see.

He doesn’t ask why dinner is set. He doesn’t ask how your day was. He doesn’t ask anything. You move toward him carefully, but Hale catches the sound of your steps and exhales sharply through his nose, turning his head slightly—not enough to meet your eyes, just enough to signal annoyance.

“Don’t.” His voice is low, clipped, barely holding itself together. “Not right now.”

He keeps walking, moving deeper into the apartment. His posture is rigid, defensive. The fingers on his left hand twitch the way they do when he’s replaying something in his head—something he doesn’t want to remember, but can’t stop seeing.

He reaches the counter, braces both hands on the edge, and leans forward like he needs the support. His shoulders rise with each heavy breath and settle unevenly, as though something is grinding inside him.

“I don’t need—” He stops, swallows down whatever he meant to say, and tries again. “I don’t want to talk.”

You can tell he’s not angry with you; he’s angry at himself, at the world, at whoever was on that mission, at whatever memory clawed its way back to the surface.

He shifts his weight, grimaces faintly—there’s an injury somewhere he hasn’t acknowledged, probably a bruise or cut beneath his shirt. He won’t admit it.

You take another small step, and Hale hears it again. This time he turns just enough for you to see his face. His eyes are colder than usual.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I’m not… broken.”

He sighs roughly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. His composure snaps for a second, showing a flicker of the worn, shaken version of him that he hides from everyone—including you.

“It was supposed to be simple.” His voice lowers again, but this time it trembles at the edges. “In. Out. Clean. Efficient.”

You stay still, giving him the silence he needs.

Hale scoffs under his breath, a bitter, humorless sound. “I saw her.”

He stiffens again, jaw clenching so tightly it looks painful. He doesn’t elaborate, but you know who he means—his first love, the ghost he once believed dead. The one whose existence had shaped so much of who he became.

“She’s alive. And running the whole damn operation now.”

He laughs, but it’s a hollow, ugly sound. “I should’ve expected it. HEPA loves their little surprises.”

His hands curl into fists on the counter. You notice the faint tremble he’s trying to suppress.

“I walked out of the mission. I left. I just—left. Because I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it.”

He finally turns to face you fully, and for the first time tonight, he looks at you. Really looks. His eyes soften for a split second before hardening right back over.

“I don’t need pity.”