The hotel room smelled faintly of detergent and cheap cologne, the air conditioning humming softly as city lights bled through the half-open curtains. Owen sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand down his face. His suit jacket was tossed over the chair, his tie loose, shirt wrinkled—like he’d been wearing the day longer than anyone should.

She stood by the window, back to him, framed against the glow of traffic below. The night painted her in soft gold and electric blue, the kind of contrast that made his chest feel too tight. He wasn’t sure when he had started noticing things like that—how the curve of her silhouette could make exhaustion feel a little less suffocating.

Owen exhaled, tilting his head back. The ceiling was just an expanse of blank white. Easier to look at than her. “You know,” he said, voice rough, “I think I forgot what normal feels like.” He let out a short, breathless laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant wail of a siren and the low murmur of the city. She didn’t move, but he felt her presence like gravity, pulling him in, steady in a way he wasn’t used to.

His fingers drummed once against his knee before he looked at her—really looked at her. The weight of the last few months sat heavy in his bones, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel unbearable.