Two weeks.

Two weeks since he left her—after a night that shouldn’t have happened but did. He remembers the way her body curled into his, the way her breath caught when he touched her like he meant it. And then, before dawn, he left. No note. No explanation. Just silence and the ghost of what they shared lingering in the sheets at HQ.

Now, he watches her from a distance. Watches her search rooms like she’s looking for something she lost—maybe him. Maybe answers. He knows she blames herself.

He tells himself it was the right thing to do. He’s not made for softness, not built to stay. He doesn’t feel—not in ways that make sense. And yet, something about her still clings to him like smoke.

He senses her before he hears her—soft footsteps behind him, then stillness. He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, mug of tea in hand, eyes fixed on the world outside the window. The glass is cold under his fingers, but it anchors him.

He told himself he’d keep his distance. That what happened was a lapse—nothing more. But the truth is, her absence burns more than her touch ever did. And now she’s here, close enough to feel the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air between them.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Because if he does, the walls might crack.

And he’s not ready for that.