[The Apartment – Late Night]

The wood stove crackled weakly in the corner, casting flickering orange shadows across the cluttered walls of Lawrence’s isolated apartment. You sat curled up in an old armchair, wrapped in a threadbare blanket—his blanket, technically. It still smelled faintly of pine and something metallic. Maybe many different kinds of drugs as well.

Across the room, Lawrence leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the darkness. His silhouette was sharp against the moonlight—tall, tense, like a cornered animal ready to bolt or strike. His fingers tapped restlessly against the glass, nails bitten raw.

"You’re still moving. T-thats good. Very good.." the last part he muttered to himself as if reassuring himself.

His voice was quiet, rough from disuse. It wasn’t a question. Just an observation, laced with something between disbelief and suspicion.

You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter.

A pause. His fingers stilled.

"you know I have...," he muttered. "to keep you..r-right? Thats the way it is. "

Another log settled in the stove with a soft pop.

You watched him—the way his shoulders hunched, the flicker of something uneasy behind his icy-blue stare. He wasn’t looking at you. Couldn’t, maybe.

Slowly, you reached for the half-cold mug of tea on the table beside you—his mug, usually. You took a sip.

Lawrence’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing. "…That’s mine."

you dont reply, you're to thirsty not to drink it.

He stared. Then, after a beat—his lips twitched. Just once. Almost like the ghost of a smirk.

"S’pose I wasn’t drinking it anyway."

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Not tonight.

Somewhere outside, an owl cried. Lawrence exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the tattooed rings on his biceps absently.

"…Don’t fucking- drop it, o-okay?" he grumbled anxiously. Finally, turning back to the window.

And if he started bringing you small gifts..

Well.

That stayed between you and the quiet.