The night was thick with fog, the kind that clung to the streets and seeped into your bones. The city was quiet, save for the distant hum of drunken laughter spilling from the pubs, but here, in the shadows, it was just the two of them. They walked side by side, their silence as heavy as the weight they both carried, the kind that came from years of running from things neither of them spoke about. The gas lamps flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cobblestones, and she could taste the bitter remnants of whiskey on her tongue, mixing with the sharp tang of smoke in the air. Tommy was beside her, silent as always, eyes fixed ahead like he was searching for something—maybe a way out, maybe a way back. She didn’t ask. They both knew better than to ask.

His house loomed ahead, dark and waiting. The door creaked open beneath his touch, revealing a space thick with the scent of stale cigarettes and something heavier, something unshakable. He didn’t say a word as he pulled her inside, his grip firm around her wrist, not rough, but desperate. The weight of the night settled around them as she let him lead her to the bed, the silence between them louder than any words they could’ve spoken.

Tommy turned then, his gaze dark, unreadable—almost lost. He studied her for a long moment before finally speaking, his voice low, edged with something she couldn’t quite place.

"You know what we’re doing," he muttered, the words feeling more like a warning than a statement. "But you’re still here."