Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

It’s just a key.

One small, jagged piece of metal. Silver. Slightly worn on the edges from years of being tossed onto counters, dropped into jacket pockets, forgotten at the bottom of purses.

It doesn’t look like much. But it unlocks a door that’s been part of Celina Juarez’s daily life longer than most people.

Lucy turns it in her hand before holding it out. No drama. No speech. Just a quiet kind of certainty — the kind that’s been written all over her since the moment she decided to move in with Tim.

“I figured it’s time,” Lucy says, half-laughing. “I mean, if I’m keeping his spare toothbrush in my bag, I probably shouldn’t be keeping mine on the sink.”

Celina snorts. “Weird flex, but okay.”

They laugh.

And for a second — just a second — it feels normal again. Like nothing’s really changing. Like this isn’t the end of an era.

Lucy’s bags are already stacked by the door, and Tim’s truck is sitting outside. This time, he didn’t come in. Gave them space. Celina had expected that.

What she hadn’t expected was the strange ache in her chest as she stared at the now-empty corner of the apartment that used to be filled with Lucy’s ridiculous collection of plants.

“You’ll visit,” Celina says, more of a challenge than a request.

“I’ll drag Tim over for dinner. He can critique your takeout choices.”

Celina rolls her eyes. “He’ll survive the pad thai, he’s not made of glass.”

Lucy smiles again — but it’s softer now. Sad. Grateful. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly what she’s walking away from, even if she’s walking toward something good.

“Thanks,” Lucy says quietly.

“For what?”

“For making this place home when everything else was chaos.”

Celina could say something real. Something honest. But that’s never been her style — not when she’s feeling everything too much and trying not to show it .

So instead, she shrugs. “Don’t forget to take the blender. It’s technically yours.”

“Yeah, and you still haven’t used it once.”

They laugh again — a little too loud, a little too long. Covering the quiet underneath it.

And then Lucy opens the door. Tim’s waiting on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets, expression softening the moment he sees her.

Celina stands in the doorway, watching them load the last box. Watching Lucy slip into someone else’s passenger seat, into someone else’s life… and wondering why this feels less like a goodbye and more like being left behind.

The apartment feels too quiet when she closes the door. Too big. Too… not hers.

She stares at the now-empty bedroom across the hall. The one with scuffed baseboards and a lightbulb that flickers and the window that never quite closes right.

She should post the listing.

She should start looking.

But instead, she picks the key up off the counter and places it gently in the drawer by the front door — where Lucy used to keep hers. Like muscle memory. 

Like habit. Like it still means something.

She tells herself it doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Spare Key

Celina meant to sleep in.

She really did. No alarms, no shift, no responsibilities. Just one blissfully quiet day off to adjust to the new reality of living alone.

Except it wasn’t quiet. It was too quiet.

The hum of the fridge suddenly sounded like it was trying to break the lease. The loose hallway window that had always been a little squeaky now groaned like a ghost. And worst of all, the living room didn’t smell like Lucy’s coconut-shea conditioner anymore.

She hadn’t realized how much that scent grounded her until it was gone. Now everything just smelled like… air. Clean and empty. Like a hotel room no one had checked into.

Celina threw the covers off with a groan, swung her legs out of bed, and immediately stepped on something sharp.

“Damn it, Lucy.”

She bent down, inspecting the culprit: a bobby pin. Probably the last one Lucy would ever leave on her floor.

Rude.

By noon, she’d rearranged the spice shelf, reorganized her sock drawer, and almost convinced herself that the ache in her chest was just mild heartburn.

She told herself she wasn’t spiraling.

She definitely was.

And then she opened the rental app and saw twenty-two unread messages from strangers wanting to see the spare room.

Half of them were obviously bots. A few were real people. One had a profile picture of what looked like a snake wrapped around a vape pen.

Oh hell no. Absolutely not.

Celina closed the app and dropped her phone face-down on the couch.

She didn’t need a roommate. She could swing the rent. She could talk to her plants. She could totally exist in silence like a perfectly well-adjusted, emotionally stable adult even if she may or may not go broke—

A knock interrupted her spiral.

She stared at the door.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Celina padded over and peeked through the peephole. And groaned.

“Miles?”

“Hey!” His voice was muffled through the door. “Sorry, I should’ve texted, but Tim said you were home and I figured —”

She opened the door mid-sentence. “Why are you here?”

Miles stood there with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a gym bag in his hand. He looked… sheepish.

Not guilty, exactly. Just aware he was about to make her day worse in a way that might involve her blender or her sanity.

“Okay, so—” he began, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Hear me out.”

“Oh god.”

He set the bags down. “I may have gotten locked out.”

Celina blinked. “Of your apartment?”

Miles winced. “Yeah, so… I’ve kind of been living with Smitty.”

Her brain short-circuited. “What?”

“It’s temporary!” he said quickly. “Tim kind of knew about it, but I don’t think he approved? I figured it would be short-term, but it’s been a while.”

“You’re living with Smitty.”

“In his van,” Miles added, like that somehow improved the situation. “And I use ‘living’ loosely. More like ‘rotating shift of terror.’ The man stores unrefrigerated cold cuts in the glove box, Celina. I think I saw something moving in the sink last week, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a sponge.”

Celina just stared.

“I left for work early today, locked myself out, and now he’s in Palm Springs with no cell reception and a very vague Instagram caption about enlightenment.”

She blinked again, slower this time. Like maybe if she didn’t react, this entire conversation would disappear in a puff of smoke.

“You came here because—?”

“Because I figured you’d be nicer than Tim, and Lucy already gave me the moral green light.”

Celina opened her mouth, then shut it again. “She did not.”

Miles pulled out his phone. “Wanna bet?”

As if on cue, buzz. Her phone lit up.

Lucy Chen:
Let him crash. He’s cleaner than me and probably won’t take your blender.

Celina sighed. “Fine. Couch. One night.”

Miles beamed. “I owe you.”

“Try anything weird and I’ll tase you.”

“Fair.”

He flopped onto the couch with the enthusiasm of someone who had just escaped a haunted meat locker. Celina crossed her arms and stared at him for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re not here for just the night, are you?” she asked flatly.

Miles hesitated, lips twitching into a half-smile. “I mean… we’ll see how generous your hospitality is?”

Celina rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m charming,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a burden.”

“Try quiet and invisible instead.”

He saluted from the couch. “Copy that, Captain Hostile.”

 —

She made it five hours before she started regretting her decision.

Miles was infuriatingly pleasant. He offered to help with dinner. Washed every dish as soon as it was used. Laughed at her Netflix commentary. He even offered her the last slice of garlic bread without being prompted.

And he didn’t hover. That was the worst part.

He didn’t fill the silence like Lucy did. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t pry. He just existed—neatly, quietly, and inoffensively—in her space.

Like he belonged there.

And Celina hated how fast she got used to it.

“You sure you don’t want the last slice?” he asked, nodding toward the plate between them.

“Positive.”

“Great.” He picked it up, took a bite, then froze. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to say ‘great’ so fast. That makes me sound selfish.”

She stared at him.

“Do-over?” he asked.

“You’re so weird.”

“You say that like it’s not part of my charm.”

“You don’t have charm, Miles. You have… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely.

“Effortless magnetism?”

“Labrador energy.”

He grinned. “I’ll take it.”

Celina leaned back into the couch, absently pulling the blanket over her lap. Her muscles were still coiled from the day, but something about the garlic bread and the bad TV and the fact that he hadn’t tried to “fix” her made her shoulders drop, just slightly.

“You know,” Miles said after a long pause, “I was kind of bracing for impact tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Because of me?”

“No, because of your taser,” he deadpanned. Then, softer, “Yeah. Because of you.”

Another pause.

“You’re handling it way better than I thought you would.”

Celina snorted. “That’s because I’ve emotionally flatlined.”

He made a face like he couldn’t tell if she was joking.

She was. Mostly.

They sat in silence a while longer. The TV flickered across their faces. On screen, someone ran dramatically through the rain. Neither of them acknowledged it.

Then, quietly, Miles said, “You know, this couch is actually pretty comfortable.”

Celina didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Good.”

A beat.

“But don’t get used to it.”

Miles grinned again. “Too late.”

—

By 11:30, she was curled up in bed with a book, trying not to overthink the sound of him shifting on the couch.

Her brain refused to cooperate.

It kept saying things like:

He fits here.

It’s too quiet when he’s not talking.

This doesn’t feel temporary.

She turned a page without reading it. Her eyes skimmed the words, but nothing stuck. Not when she could hear the couch cushions creaking faintly in the next room. Not when she could still smell garlic and laundry detergent and the weirdly comforting scent of his shampoo drifting down the hall.

Celina groaned and shoved her pillow over her face.

This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

Miles was… Miles. Sweet and reliable and probably already in love with some girl who bakes muffins and volunteers with puppies on the weekends.

The kind of person who had good posture and texted back in under five minutes.

He was not her type.

She didn’t have a type.

She had a boyfriend.

She had a plan.

She was already P2. She had momentum. She had a plan. Build her case history. Work her way into Investigations. Prove she belonged — here, in this city, in this life. Not get sidetracked by someone who made folding laundry look like a soft skill and kept accidentally slipping past all her defenses.

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It couldn’t.

And still —

In the quiet, her brain whispered one more thing.

You didn’t ask him to leave.

—

By 11:45, Miles had rotated through four different positions on the couch, two failed attempts at sleep, and one internal debate about whether or not it was too soon to fake a plumbing emergency and leave.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear the faint rustle of pages turning in the bedroom, the occasional creak of old pipes, and the existential hum of every bad decision he’d ever made.

He was keenly aware of three things:

1. The couch was actually pretty nice.
   
   
2. He definitely wasn’t supposed to think that.
   
   
3. He should’ve gone to Tim’s.
   
   

Sure, Tim would’ve lectured him about boundaries and being a grown adult and possibly made him sleep on a weight bench in the garage. But it would’ve been less complicated . Less… whatever this was.

Celina had barely looked at him all evening. She made dinner without asking for help until he physically inserted himself into the process, and even then, she’d handed him the garlic press like it was a loaded weapon. And yet—

She hadn’t kicked him out.

She hadn’t set any real boundaries.

She hadn’t even said no to the garlic bread.

Which meant... what, exactly?

He stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was a test. Or worse, if this was just kindness and he was reading into it because he’d spent one too many nights trying to avoid eye contact with Smitty’s glove box salami.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

She had a boyfriend.

She was his friend.

Okay, “friend” was generous. Co-worker with mutual trauma and decent banter. And a taser.

He rolled to his side and pulled the blanket tighter. It smelled like laundry detergent and something vaguely floral — like maybe Lucy had left a dryer sheet legacy behind.

He wasn’t going to overthink this.

He was just going to sleep. On the couch. Like a normal, not-spiraling person. In an apartment that wasn’t his. With a woman he wasn’t thinking about.

Not like that.

Probably. (okay why did you say that)

—

The next morning, she found him in the kitchen. Again.

He was barefoot, wearing a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants that looked suspiciously like he’d slept in them. There was a cup of coffee already sitting on the counter — black, exactly how she liked it.

“You always pour it the same way in the break room,” Miles said when she raised an eyebrow. “And you get irritated if someone talks to you before your first sip. I learn things.”

She stared. “Creepy.”

“Observant,” he corrected.

Celina took a long sip. “You always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Helpful. Bright-eyed. Barefoot in someone else’s kitchen before 8 a.m.?”

Miles shrugged, plating eggs. “What can I say? I’m an adaptable guest.”

“Or you just like playing house.”

He looked up at that. “Maybe I just like being in a kitchen that doesn’t feel like a gas station.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t know how.

So she sat. Ate. Listened.

They talked about nothing for a while. Then work. Then people. Then he asked about her favorite kind of cereal and laughed when she said dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“No milk? Monster.”

“I don’t trust soggy food,” she muttered.

“You really are terrifying.”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

She said it dryly, like a joke. But Miles laughed anyway, the sound low and easy. He didn’t push. Just turned back to the sink and started rinsing the pan.

Celina watched him move — familiar, like he’d done this before. Like he knew where things went even if he didn’t.

There was no hesitation. No need for instructions.
 

He cleaned like someone who’d learned to do it for other people. Someone who knew what it meant to take up space without leaving a mess behind.

And for some reason, that made her chest ache.

She looked away. Focused on her coffee. Took another sip, even though it was cooling.

Buzz.

Her phone lit up on the counter beside her.

Rodge 💙:
Good morning, baby. Hope you slept okay. Wanna grab lunch after your shift? I miss you.

Her stomach twisted.

Not guilt — not exactly. But something colder. Sharper.

Miles was still at the sink, humming quietly under his breath. Some old rock song, off-key but confident. He was scrubbing the frying pan like it had personally offended him.

Like this was normal.

Like this was home.

Celina locked her phone without replying.

“Everything okay?” Miles asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. “Just—nothing.”

She stood up. Took her mug to the sink, avoiding his eyes.

“I’ll do that,” he offered, reaching for it.

“I’ve got it.”

Their hands brushed. She froze.

He did too. Just for a second. Then he stepped back, hands raised. “Right. Sorry.”

The silence that followed was sharper than the coffee.

—

By day three, his things had multiplied.

The duffel bag still lived by the door, but now there was a hoodie on the back of the couch and a toothbrush in the bathroom. She noticed, didn’t mention it.

Instead, she texted Lucy.

Celina:
Still not a thing.

Lucy:
Okay. But is his stuff multiplying?

Celina:
Shut up.

She didn’t kick him out.

Didn’t ask when he’d be leaving.

Didn’t say a word the night he fell asleep watching TV again — her throw blanket tangled around his legs, remote still in his hand.  His mouth slightly open. That faint line between his brows smoothed out for once.

She just turned off the light.

Paused in the doorway.

And left the one by the front door on.

Just in case.

For what, exactly — she didn’t let herself ask.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: You're Not Lucy 

Celina woke up to music.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just the soft rhythm of something vaguely acoustic and

upbeat floating from the living room.

She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented.

Lucy never played music in the morning.

Lucy never did a lot of things Miles was doing.

The coffee was already made. Again.

Celina padded into the kitchen barefoot, still half-asleep, and found Miles dancing. Wait What.

Or—well, attempting to. He was in pajama pants, hair messy, holding a spatula like a mic as he swayed to the beat of some indie-pop song she couldn’t name.

He looked ridiculous. Completely at ease. Like this wasn’t a stranger’s apartment and he hadn’t shown up three days ago with zero warning and a duffel bag.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a full ten seconds before clearing her throat.

Miles froze like he’d been caught in the act of something criminal.

“Oh,” he said. “Good morning.”

“You’re way too cheerful,” she muttered, grabbing her coffee. “It’s alarming.”

He held up the spatula. “I bring you breakfast and vibes. That’s all I’ve got.”

Celina took a sip and squinted at him. “You always like this? Or is this just for my benefit?”

Miles shrugged. “I’m a morning person. Blame my grandmother. She used to say if you’re not dancing before 8 a.m., you’re wasting the day.”

Celina rolled her eyes. “My grandmother said if someone talks to you before coffee, you’re legally allowed to stab them.”

Miles grinned. “I like her already.”

She didn’t smile back. Not really. She was too busy watching the way he moved around the kitchen — not like a guest anymore. Like someone who belonged.

And she hated how her chest twisted at the realization.

She wasn’t ready for this.

For him.

For the way he just fit — into her space, into her routines, into the quiet she’d once sworn she loved.

“You don’t have to keep making breakfast,” she said, quieter than before.

Miles looked up. “I don’t mind.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it settle.

Then he shrugged again. “Yeah. But I like doing it. You work too hard. You forget to eat half the time, and when you do, it’s just cereal. Which — no offense — is not a personality.”

“Dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch is a personality.”

“Then you’re a deeply chaotic woman.”

She snorted.

But the thing that got her wasn’t the joke. It was the way he said it — so casual, like he already knew all her weird habits and decided to keep her anyway.

She wasn’t used to that.

She crossed to the counter and took another sip, slower this time.

The music kept playing in the background — the song winding down and blending into the next one without pause.

And then…

Miles started singing.

Not softly. Not absentmindedly. Not in the “guy in the shower” kind of way.

Full. Belted. Musical theatre level singing. 

🎶 "Don't go breaking my heart..." 🎶

Celina blinked.

Miles, completely unfazed, spun toward the fridge like it was his dance partner.

🎶 "I couldn't if I tried!" 🎶

His voice was strong. Warm. Stupidly good.

Celina nearly dropped her mug. “Are you serious right now?”

Miles grinned and kept going.

🎶 "Oh honey if I get restless—baby, you're not that kind!" 🎶

She stared at him in horror. “Stop. Stop singing. You can’t be good at this too.”

“Too?” he repeated, clearly delighted.

“Shut up.”

“It’s not my fault I’m multi-talented.”

“You’re actually the worst.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t get a duet part.”

“I will throw this coffee at you.”

“You’d waste perfectly good Cinnamon Toast Crunch water?”

“You need to leave.”

“You invited me.”

“I did not invite the Jersey Boys: Live From My Kitchen edition of you.”

Miles laughed, loud and bright, and flipped the eggs like nothing happened.

Celina tried very hard not to smile. Failed.

Somewhere between her second bite and third sip, he said something about getting groceries later — “we’re low on butter” — and she didn’t correct the we .

She just kept eating.

—

Later that day, she stood in the hallway staring at the closed door across from her bedroom.

It was still Lucy’s room.

Technically, it was just the spare room now — empty except for a shelf, an old chair, and a box of miscellaneous things Celina hadn’t had the heart to throw away.

A hairbrush. A broken umbrella. A takeout menu with Lucy’s handwriting scrawled on the back.

She hadn’t touched any of it.

Couldn’t.

Miles had been sleeping on the couch for three nights.

He hadn’t complained.

Hadn’t asked for more space.

Hadn’t even looked at the door.

But she noticed the way his back cracked every time he stood up. And the way he winced when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He was taller than Lucy. Longer legs. Narrow shoulders. But he folded into the same corners of the apartment like he’d always known how.

She hated how aware of him she was becoming.

Not just the big things — the toothbrush, the spatula karaoke, the fact that he made her real food without being asked.

It was the little things.

The way he dried the sink after doing the dishes.

The way he talked to her plants like they were people.

The way he hummed under his breath when the silence got too thick.

How quiet the apartment wasn’t anymore.

And how that wasn’t a bad thing.

—

The fourth night, they watched some B-movie horror comedy he picked out — something with bad wigs and worse acting.

Celina hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

Not since Lucy left.

Not since she started wondering if the silence was something she’d grown too used to.

The movie was absurd. A man in a fake mustache screamed at a clearly rubber bat. The heroine tripped over her own heels four times in the same hallway. The special effects looked like they were done in Microsoft Paint.

And still — she laughed. Really laughed.

Head back, stomach aching, tears in her eyes.

Miles just kept grinning at the screen like he knew. Like he’d known she needed this and had chosen it on purpose.

Halfway through the movie, he got up and grabbed a blanket from the hall closet without asking.

Without asking.

Like he’d already memorized where things were.

Like he already belonged.

And she didn’t stop him.

She just curled her feet up under herself and let the soft warmth settle between them like it belonged there.

The blanket brushed her arm, and for a second, she almost leaned into it. Into him.
She didn’t.

But she thought about it.

They didn’t talk during the rest of the movie. They didn’t need to.

At one point, their shoulders brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

—

“You ever think about getting a dog?” he asked, somewhere around midnight when the movie ended and neither of them had moved.

“No time.”

“I think you’d like one. You seem like a dog person.”

“I’m not.”

“You keep a dying cactus alive out of spite, Celina. You’d absolutely be a dog person.”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t want to admit that she had thought about it. That the idea of a dog—of company, routine, something waiting for her—sounded kind of… nice.

Instead, she shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“You’re not Lucy,” she said suddenly.

Miles blinked. “I… yeah, I got that.”

“It’s different with you here.”

He sat up straighter. “Bad different?”

She paused. “I don’t know yet.”

They were quiet after that.

And for once, Miles didn’t try to fill the silence.

—

Later that night, after Miles had gone to bed and the apartment dipped into calm again, Celina curled into her blankets, phone propped against her pillow.

The screen lit up with Lucy’s face, hair a mess, half-covered by a blanket of her own.

“Hey,” Lucy said, voice soft and scratchy with sleep. “You look exhausted.”

“Long day,” Celina replied. “You’re still up?”

“Barely,” Lucy yawned. “Tim’s hogging all the blankets. Say hi, babe.”

The camera shifted, and Tim appeared next to her, squinting like he’d just been woken up against his will.

“Hi, Celina,” he said, monotone. “Blink twice if Miles is still alive.”

“I’m considering smothering him with a pillow,” she deadpanned.

Tim nodded. “That tracks.”

Lucy elbowed him. “Be nice.”

Celina rolled her eyes. “He’s… fine. It’s just weird. Having someone else here.”

Tim raised a brow. “Weird how?”

She hesitated. “Just… not what I expected.”

Lucy studied her face for a second. “You miss me?”

“Of course I miss you,” Celina said, like it was obvious. Because it was.

There was a pause.

“But you’re okay?” Lucy asked, voice lower now.

Celina hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And for the first time, she almost believed it.

“Good,” Lucy said, smiling sleepily. “Now get some rest. And tell Miles if he eats the last of your cereal, I will find out.”

Tim smirked. “That’s not a joke. She’ll burn him to the ground.”

Celina grinned, just a little. “Noted.”

They hung up a few minutes later. And the apartment was quiet again. But it didn’t feel empty.

—

The next morning, the blanket was still on the couch — folded, neatly, like Miles had taken time to smooth it out before he left for work.

Celina hadn’t asked him to.

She hadn’t asked him to do any of the things he was doing. But somehow, they kept happening.

The kitchen stayed clean. The trash went out. Her cereal restock magically aligned with when she ran out — which was suspicious, because she never remembered to buy it herself.

She opened the fridge and found the oat milk on the side shelf, exactly where she always put it. There was even a new roll of paper towel on the counter, already unwrapped.

He wasn’t just staying here. He was noticing .

She was halfway through brushing her teeth when it hit her: Lucy never did any of that.

Lucy was the kind of roommate who left bobby pins in the drain and kept five different hair masks on the bathroom shelf. The kind of roommate who texted Celina from two rooms away to ask if they had wine. The kind who made living together feel like a sleepover with shifts in between.

Miles wasn’t like that.

He didn’t fill the apartment with noise.

He filled it with… presence.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Celina couldn’t brush it off with sarcasm or sass or noise.

It was real in the way things were real when you stopped pretending not to notice. The way something settles in quietly — soft, unannounced — and makes itself at home.

And once it’s there, it’s hard to remember how the space felt without it.

—

At work, Lucy cornered her by the coffee machine.

“So, how’s it going?” she asked, entirely too casual.

Celina narrowed her eyes. “You’re not slick.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Lucy replied, stirring creamer into her cup with the energy of someone very much invested in the outcome.

Celina reached for a coffee lid. “He’s sleeping on the couch.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”

Lucy sipped her coffee. “Okay, so I was, but I’m only asking because I care.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. I’m asking because I think it’s kind of cute.”

Celina choked. “It’s not cute.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Mmm. No? So the matching mugs in your dish rack? The perfectly folded blanket on the couch? That’s just coincidence?”

Celina stiffened. “You’ve been to my apartment.”

“Yeah, and I remember it didn’t always look like a catalogue page with a side of emotional repression. ”

Celina glared. “He does chores. That’s it.”

“I mean, you’ve kept roommates before. But you’ve never texted me about their cereal preferences.”

“I—he restocks my cereal. It’s just considerate.”

Lucy smirked. “Right. Super platonic.”

Celina took a sip of her coffee like it might scald the conversation away.

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You do.”

“Who I’m very happy with.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Celina didn’t meet her eyes.

Because it wasn’t not true. It just… didn’t feel like the whole truth anymore.

Rodge was nice. Steady. Familiar.

But he didn’t notice when she ran out of oat milk. He didn’t make her laugh when she didn’t feel like laughing. He didn’t see her the way Miles seemed to — quietly, accidentally, all the time.

She shook her head, like it would physically scatter the thought.

“This isn’t a thing,” Celina muttered.

Lucy leaned back against the counter, cradling her coffee. “You know what’s funny? You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince me .”

“I am.”

Lucy didn’t blink. “Then why do you sound so unsure?”

Celina opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Behind them, someone called Lucy’s name down the hallway. She gave Celina one last look — a knowing, maddening, best friend with receipts kind of look — and headed off without another word.

Celina stared into her coffee like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

—

That night, she found Miles sitting cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with the base of the wobbly lamp that had driven her crazy for months.

“Pretty sure it’s just a loose bolt,” he said without looking up. “You want me to fix it?”

“Yeah, why not,” she said too quickly. Then paused. “Wait, when did you even notice that was broken?”

“You kicked it during your 2 a.m. laundry mission two nights ago.”

She stared at him.

“You remember that?”

Miles shrugged. “You kicked it. Swore. Then mumbled something about setting it on fire. I figured I’d help before we ended up with a call to the fire department.”

Celina laughed despite herself. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”

“I’m observant,” he said again, but his voice was softer this time.

Less playful. More careful.

Like he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be.

The moment hung between them — warm, unspoken, just this side of vulnerable.

Celina stood there for a second too long. Watching the way he handled the screwdriver like he’d done this a hundred times. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, mouth tugging into a slight frown.

There was no performance in it. No need for credit.
Just the quiet kind of care that said I see you.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because she wasn’t used to being seen like this — in her mess, in her midnight chaos, in her broken-lamp moments.

And Miles?

Miles was fixing things she hadn’t asked anyone to fix.

Things she didn’t even realize she wanted fixed until they were steady again.

—

That same night, she walked past the spare room.

Stopped.

Stared.

The door was still half-closed. The air inside smelled stale.

It always did now — like dust and disuse. Like absence.

And it hit her, suddenly, that Lucy had never really moved out so much as… faded from the space.

One box at a time.

One missing mug.

One less laugh echoing off the walls.

There had been no official goodbye to the room. No tearful packing montage, no last wine night surrounded by empty takeout containers. Just… absence.

One day Lucy’s hairdryer wasn’t on the counter anymore. Then her shoes disappeared from the mat. Then the drawer she used for snacks was suddenly empty.

The quiet had crept in without ceremony.

That room was still full of echoes.

Echoes of who they were before promotions and boyfriends and decisions they weren’t brave enough to talk about.

Celina didn’t realize how long she stood there until Miles’ voice drifted in from behind her.

“You thinking about using it?”

She turned.

He was leaning against the wall, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, barefoot again. Always barefoot. Like the floor belonged to him now.

Like he wasn’t just passing through.

Celina shook her head. “Just… looking.”

He nodded. Didn’t press.

And that, more than anything, made her want to say something.

“She left fast.”

Miles didn’t ask who. He just nodded again. “I figured.”

“We lived together for almost two years,” she said, voice quieter than before. “It was always loud. Messy. But… good.”

Miles waited.

“She didn’t make the bed. Ever. Used like twelve hair products. Always left lights on.”

“And you miss it.”

Celina swallowed. “I miss her. I think I miss who I was when she was here.”

Miles didn’t say you’re still her , or you haven’t changed , or you’ll be fine .

He just said, “Yeah. I get that.”

And somehow, that was enough.

It was after midnight when she heard him again.

The soft shuffle of feet across hardwood. The gentle click of the fridge door. A barely-there sigh as he leaned against the counter.

She told herself to stay in bed.

Told herself that nothing good ever came from late-night anything — texts, snacks, thoughts.

But her feet were already swinging to the floor, already carrying her into the hallway.

She found him the same way she always did — like the universe kept gently placing them in the same room, like maybe it knew something she wasn’t ready to admit.

Miles didn’t jump when she appeared in the doorway.

He just smiled like she was expected.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

Celina shrugged. “Too quiet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You? Miss noise?”

“I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re a mystery wrapped in sarcasm, wrapped in caffeine.”

She smirked. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like someone who enjoys my company.”

“Maybe I do.”

The words weren’t flirtatious. Not exactly.

But they landed heavy between them — not light like a joke, not sharp like a challenge. Just honest.

Too honest.

Celina stepped around him, grabbed a glass of water just for the sake of doing something, then leaned against the counter beside him.

They stood there for a minute. Two.

The silence grew roots.

Comfortable. Dangerous. Familiar.

“I’m not trying to replace her,” he said quietly.

Celina blinked. “What?”

“Lucy. I know it’s different now. I know I’m… not the same kind of easy.”

“You’re not,” she admitted. “But that’s not bad.”

Miles looked at her then — really looked.

And for a second, she couldn’t breathe.

Not because he was saying too much. But because he wasn’t saying anything she could deflect.

“You’re different too,” he said.

She didn’t ask what he meant.

Didn’t want to know.

Instead, she turned and started back toward her room.

Halfway down the hall, she paused.

“Goodnight, Miles.”

“Night, Celina.”

She didn’t close her door all the way when she went in.

And in the quiet that followed, she let herself imagine what it might be like if things were different.

If this didn’t feel so temporary.

If the space he filled wasn’t one someone else left behind — but one she wanted to give.

The thought scared her.

But not enough to make her stop.

She fell asleep trying not to want that too much.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: House Rules Don’t Apply

Celina hadn’t realized how much the apartment had changed until she came home late that night and found the sticky note.

It was on the fridge. Neon green. Crooked. The handwriting was familiar now—loose, slightly slanted, a little too neat for someone who’d lived in a van.

“Fridge is haunted again. Milk definitely moved. I’ll investigate tomorrow. — M”

She stood in the kitchen, reading it three times before she even exhaled.

The milk—he’d rearranged the fridge again.

Of course he had.

She rolled her eyes and let out a half-laugh, half-groan.

But something in her chest loosened at the sight of his note, like a knot she hadn’t known was there had finally unraveled.

She hated that.

She didn’t want to be the kind of person who got used to notes on the fridge. Who saved them. Who looked forward to them .

She didn’t want to admit that it felt like a kind of belonging. Like someone else saw the apartment the way she did — too quiet, too empty, too easy to let slip into silence.

She hated the way that made her feel.

She crumpled the note but didn’t throw it out.

Instead, she stuck it in the back of her notebook with the others he’d left — quiet reminders that someone else saw the apartment the way she did.

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she shoved the notebook in a drawer and slammed it shut.

The sound echoed in the silence that followed.

Like she was trying to bury something.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

That she’d forget it by morning.

But when she climbed into bed that night, the echo felt too loud to ignore.

Earlier that day, she’d nearly run headfirst into Lucy at the precinct.

Lucy had been half-laughing at something on her phone, leaning against Tim’s desk. He was sitting there with that eternally unimpressed look, but his eyes softened when they landed on Celina.

“Hey,” Lucy chirped, tucking her phone away. “You look… tired.”

“Thanks,” Celina said dryly.

Tim smirked. “You mean ‘like she’s been living with an unsupervised toddler.’”

Lucy elbowed him. “Tim.”

Celina sighed. “He’s not a toddler. He’s just… everywhere.”

Lucy’s grin was too knowing. “So you noticed.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Is he leaving dishes everywhere? Because Lucy—”

“Tim,” Lucy cut in. “It’s not about dishes.”

Tim shrugged. “Could be.”

Celina scrubbed a hand over her face. “I swear, he’s reorganized my entire fridge. I think he’s nesting.”

Lucy laughed, eyes crinkling. “So he’s making himself at home.”

Celina didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The look on her face said enough.

Tim’s expression softened, just slightly. “You want him to leave?”

The question made her chest tighten. She looked away. “I don’t know.”

Lucy reached over and squeezed her arm. “Hey—no judgment. Just be honest with yourself, okay?”

Celina nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

Because honesty was dangerous. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.

She’d barely dropped her keys on the counter that night when she saw the note.

It was another sticky note, this time bright yellow, stuck to the cabinet above the sink.

“You’re out of oat milk. I got the weird brand you like. — M”

Her stomach did that annoying flip thing.

She hated that he noticed things. The oat milk, the laundry, the way she forgot to eat when she was stressed.

She hated how much he saw her — the version of herself she tried to keep hidden, the one who couldn’t keep a fridge stocked and lived on half-finished cups of coffee.

Rodge didn’t even know she liked oat milk.

Not because he didn’t care, exactly, but because she’d never let him get close enough to know.

She shook the thought away and opened the fridge. Sure enough — two cartons, exactly where she always put them.

She took one out and stared at it like it might explain things.

Like it might explain why her chest felt too tight, why her throat burned, why she suddenly wanted to scream and laugh and maybe cry all at once.

She closed the fridge too hard, the magnets rattling against the door.

Then she stood there in the kitchen, carton in hand, trying to pretend the space around her hadn’t shifted in a way she couldn’t put back.

Later, she found Miles in the living room, laptop balanced on his knees, one of her throw blankets draped over his shoulders like a cape.

He looked up, half-smile on his face. “Hey. Rough shift?”

“Something like that,” she muttered, flopping onto the couch.

He closed his laptop and set it aside, giving her his full attention. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

They sat there in silence for a minute.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. The way he sat—relaxed but alert, like he was always ready for her to need him.

Like he’d learned to be a constant in a way no one else had.

She hated that, too.

Hated how easy it was to lean on him.

How easy it was to want him there — with his stupid throw blanket and his patience and his little jokes that always hit just right.

Hated that every time she turned around, he was already there — at the sink, by the fridge, in the hallway — like the apartment had rearranged itself around him.

She stared at the floor, fighting the urge to say too much.

He didn’t push. Didn’t fidget. Just waited.

It made her chest ache.

The next morning, she found another note.

“Fixed the squeaky cabinet door. You’re welcome. — M”

She pressed her fingers to the paper, breath caught in her throat.

She wasn’t used to someone just… doing things.

Rodge always said he’d fix the cabinet. But he never did.

Miles had.

She folded the note and put it in her notebook.

Didn’t throw it away.

Couldn’t.

That afternoon, Lucy found her again at the precinct, this time at the vending machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re living on protein bars again,” Lucy teased, eyeing the wrapper in Celina’s hand.

Celina glared. “I’m fine.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “Yeah, sure. You know, you can talk to me about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Celina lied.

Lucy didn’t push. She just sipped her coffee. “Okay.”

Then she added, almost too casually, “Tim thinks Miles is good for you.”

The words hit harder than Celina expected.

Like a sudden, sharp exhale.

She felt her throat tighten, her fingers stilling on the wrapper, the world narrowing to that one line.

Tim thinks Miles is good for you.

As if that was something people could just see . As if her carefully guarded chaos was now an open book everyone could read.

Celina’s head snapped up. “What?”

Lucy shrugged, all nonchalance and mischief. “He says you’ve been… lighter. Like you’re not carrying the whole precinct on your back.”

Lighter.

She didn’t feel lighter. She felt off-balance . Like the floor was shifting under her feet every time she let herself exhale around him.

Celina scowled. “Tim’s full of it.”

Lucy smiled, knowing and too patient. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s not wrong.”

Celina muttered under her breath, “He doesn’t live with Miles.”

Lucy’s eyes sparkled with that mischievous best-friend glint. “Oh, so now he lives with you?”

Celina wanted to throw her protein bar at Lucy’s head.

“Shut up,” she muttered, stalking off before Lucy could see the blush creeping up her neck.

She tossed the wrapper in the trash and headed for the locker room, telling herself she was fine .

That it was just a squeaky cabinet.

Just oat milk.

Just a sticky note.

Nothing more.

Back at the apartment, she found Miles fixing the wobbly lamp.

Again.

“Didn’t you already fix that?” she asked, crossing her arms.

He glanced up, a screwdriver balanced between his fingers. “Yeah. But it squeaked again.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know.”

He paused. “I know.”

But he didn’t stop.

And she didn’t stop watching him.

The screwdriver turned slowly in his hand, his fingers steady, his focus absolute. Like he was listening to the lamp, finding its weaknesses, its hidden complaints.

He worked quietly. Patiently. Like the lamp’s stubbornness didn’t frustrate him, like he didn’t mind its small, silent protests.

Celina’s chest tightened.

She didn’t know how to handle someone who didn’t mind squeaks. Someone who didn’t look at her broken things — her broken self — and expect her to hide them away.

She folded her arms tighter.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter than before, “it’s just a lamp.”

Miles looked up, his eyes meeting hers in that soft, steady way that made her want to throw something.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

But he didn’t stop.

And she didn’t stop watching him.

She’d always thought she liked silence. That the quiet gave her space to think.

But lately, it felt… heavy.

Like every time she walked in the door, she was waiting for his voice. His humming. The way he’d narrate his cooking like it was a cooking show.

Tonight, the apartment was too quiet.

Miles wasn’t home yet.

And she hated how empty it felt without him.

She sat on the couch, staring at the empty space beside her.

The blanket he’d folded neatly sat on the armrest, too perfect, too telling.

Like he’d left a piece of himself behind on purpose — a promise that he’d come back, that she wouldn’t have to wait too long for the apartment to come alive again.

She thought about Rodge.

She thought about how he never noticed the laundry. How he didn’t know where the oat milk went. How he didn’t see the chipped mug she kept using every morning.

How she’d tried to tell herself those things didn’t matter.

Rodge was steady, reliable, familiar.

But not present.

Not the kind of presence that felt like warmth, like laughter, like the quiet hum of someone living in her space without asking her permission — and without making her regret it.

Miles was here.

Too here.

She leaned back on the couch, pulling the blanket into her lap without meaning to.

And hated how right it felt.

Her phone buzzed—a text from Rodge.

Sorry for the radio silence. Work’s been insane. Miss you.

She stared at the screen for a long time.

The words felt both familiar and foreign.

He was steady. The kind of person who always said the right thing, always made sure she was okay — at least in the ways that were easy.

But right now, she didn’t feel steady.

She felt like everything was shifting around her — walls she’d built so carefully starting to crack.

She typed back:

Miss you too. Stay safe.

She didn’t mention Miles.

Didn’t mention how the apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Didn’t mention how that scared her.

Didn’t mention the notes, or the humming, or the quiet presence that filled the gaps she hadn’t realized were there.

She locked her phone and set it face down on the coffee table, like it might burn her if she kept looking at it.

The screen went dark, but the questions didn’t.

Miles came home just after that.

He kicked off his boots at the door like he always did. Like it was his home.

She watched him from the couch.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He moved closer, dropping his bag on the floor. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t push. Just sat on the opposite end of the couch, close enough that their knees almost brushed.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him — that quiet, steady heat that had become part of the apartment without her permission.

She hated how comforting that was.

Hated how easy it was to relax when he was near.

She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending to study it instead of the way his breathing calmed her.

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged.

She found another note the next morning.

“Did the dishes. Couldn’t stand the thought of them crying alone. — M”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

But she folded the note and tucked it into her notebook.

Didn’t throw it away.

Didn’t even think about it.

And that scared her most of all.

Lucy cornered her in the hallway at work again.

“Let me guess—he folded your laundry.”

Celina glared. “No.”

Lucy smirked. “Dishes, then?”

Celina didn’t answer.

Lucy leaned in, conspiratorial. “Celina, you like having him there.”

Celina’s jaw tightened. “I have a boyfriend.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “I know.”

Celina didn’t meet her eyes.

Her pulse skittered in her throat, a traitor she couldn’t control.

Lucy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Does he make you laugh like Miles does?”

Celina felt like the floor was falling out from under her.

The hallway noise faded, and all she could hear was the quiet hum of the vending machine, the muffled footsteps of passing officers, the rush of blood in her own ears.

Lucy was right there, steady, waiting.

But Celina couldn’t hold her gaze.

She turned away. “I have to go.”

That night, she watched Miles cook dinner.

He didn’t ask if she wanted any. He just made enough for both of them.

She watched him move around the kitchen, the way he reached for the spices without asking where they were. The way he hummed under his breath like he was content.

Like he’d always belonged there.

She wondered when he’d started feeling like a part of the apartment.

She wondered when he’d started feeling like a part of her life.

It was unsettling.

The way he’d folded himself into her routines without her noticing. The way the kitchen felt wrong when he wasn’t in it.

After dinner, they sat on the couch with the TV on, some half-watched episode of a show neither of them were really paying attention to.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy—just there.

Comfortable in a way that made her chest ache.

She found herself studying the side of his face, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the small scar by his eyebrow she’d never asked about.

She wondered how he’d gotten it.

She wondered if he’d tell her if she asked.

She wondered if she’d want him to.

She thought about how easy it would be to lean into him.

She didn’t.

But she thought about it.

And that felt like a betrayal all on its own.

He turned to her, like he’d felt her watching.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She shrugged. “Long day.”

He nodded. “You want me to leave?”

The question hit her like a punch.

“No,” she said too quickly.

His gaze softened. “Okay.”

He didn’t move.

She didn’t either.

The silence stretched between them, soft and dangerous, like the hush of a room holding its breath.

She couldn’t look at him — not directly. She studied the threads in the throw blanket instead, the way it curled around his arm like it belonged there.

She wondered how many nights he’d sat here, waiting for her to ask him to leave.

She wondered why he hadn’t.

And she wondered why the idea of him leaving felt like too much.

Her heart beat too fast.

And still — neither of them moved.

The air felt too thick.

She swallowed. “Miles.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you… do all this?”

“All what?”

She gestured helplessly. “The notes. The dishes. The fridge. All of it.”

He looked at her like the answer was obvious. “Because it makes your day a little easier.”

She blinked.

He added, “And because I like being here.”

Her chest ached.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she said nothing.

The silence settled around them, soft and heavy.

Miles knew he was pushing it.

He’d been telling himself for days that he’d back off—stop folding laundry, stop rearranging the fridge, stop making the apartment feel like his.

But every time he tried, something pulled him back.

He’d never had a place like this. A place that felt like more than a crash pad. A place that smelled like real food and clean laundry and something like home.

He knew she didn’t ask for it.

He knew she had a boyfriend—Rodge, steady and dependable, the guy who’d sent her that text that made her shoulders tense.

But every time she walked in the door, he felt that quiet shift in her posture, like she was bracing for something. And every time, he wanted to make that shift go away.

So he folded the blanket.

So he stocked the oat milk.

So he left the notes—little things, so she’d know someone saw her, even if he wasn’t supposed to.

He didn’t know if he was making things better or worse.

But every time she picked up one of his notes, even when she rolled her eyes, something in her eyes went soft.

And he’d never been able to walk away from that.

He told himself to stop. To let her breathe.

But he couldn’t bring himself to make the apartment feel like just a place again.

Celina found herself staring at one of his notes the next morning.

“Your cactus looks a little sad. Watered it. — M”

She didn’t know why that one hit harder than the others.

Maybe because Lucy had always joked that her cactus was a metaphor for her love life—prickly, neglected, barely holding on.

Maybe because Rodge had never noticed it at all.

Maybe because Miles did.

She traced the note with her thumb, feeling the way his handwriting looped and dipped.

Feeling like maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to stop.

She walked into the kitchen, note in hand, and found him at the sink.

He looked up, eyes wary. “Hey.”

She didn’t know what she wanted to say.

So she held up the note instead.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head. “No. It’s… thank you.”

His eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

And just like that, the tension broke.

They stood there in the quiet hum of the apartment, a thousand words unsaid between them.

The refrigerator hummed. The tap dripped once. The light above the sink flickered slightly, like even the house wasn’t sure how to handle the moment.

She didn’t know what came next.

Didn’t know how to untangle the mess of what they were, what they weren’t, what they could be.

She felt like she was standing on the edge of something — a line she hadn’t drawn, but that neither of them seemed ready to cross.

But for the first time, she didn’t want to chase the quiet away.

She wanted to stay in it.

With him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Unwashed Dishes and Avoided Conversations 

Celina woke up to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was. The apartment was too quiet, too still. Then the sounds trickled in: the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the floorboards as she shifted.

She’d slept badly. A dull ache had settled behind her eyes, and her throat felt scratchy. She blamed the air conditioning or the way the apartment always felt too dry at night.

She pulled herself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen.

And stopped.

The kitchen was spotless. Not just clean—spotless. Counters wiped down, dishes stacked, stove gleaming. A dish towel hung from the oven handle, folded too perfectly.

She scowled at it.

A bright yellow sticky note was stuck to the cabinet above the sink.

“Coffee’s on me today — you look like you need it. — M.”

She snatched the note off the cabinet and crumpled it, but didn’t throw it away. Instead, she shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans and grabbed the coffee mug he’d set out for her.

He’d even poured it.

The smell was warm, familiar. 

It tasted like home.

And she hated that.

She was halfway through her cup when the front door opened.

Miles didn’t say anything at first — just kicked off his shoes, set down whatever he was carrying, and wandered into the kitchen like it was any other morning.

“Kitchen looks different,” she said without turning around.

He leaned against the doorway. “Yeah, well. I figured if I left it any longer, one of us would end up declaring war on the sink.”

“You mean me.”

He shrugged. “You looked like you needed the day off from passive-aggressive dish warfare.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “So, you deep-cleaned the kitchen and left a sticky note.”

“It was either that or an interpretive dance.”

A pause stretched between them. Too long. Not long enough.

“Thanks,” she said finally, her voice low.

He nodded, like he wasn’t sure if it was permission to come closer or a cue to leave her alone.

“Next time,” she added, “don’t fold the towel like it’s a hotel. It’s creepy.”

That made him smile. “Duly noted.”

But even after he left the room, she couldn’t bring herself to fix the towel. Not yet.

At the precinct, Celina stood frozen in front of the vending machine, clutching a protein bar she didn’t even want. Her head throbbed, and the light above the snack display flickered annoyingly, humming in time with the dull pulse behind her eyes.

“Please tell me you’re eating real food,” said a voice behind her

Celina didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Lucy was eyeing the bar like it had personally offended her.

“This is food,” Celina muttered.

Lucy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “It’s cardboard.”

Celina didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy. She cracked the wrapper just to have something to do with her hands. “It’s fine.”

“You look like hell,” Lucy said, blunt but not unkind.

“Thanks,” Celina replied dryly.

Lucy tilted her head, scanning her face like she was searching for the truth beneath the sarcasm. “I mean it. You okay?”

Celina hesitated, her throat rougher now, the fluorescent lights too bright.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Or sick.”

“I’m not sick,” she said too fast.

Lucy smiled softly, like she already knew. “Okay. But if you are, tell your other roommate to get himself checked too. We can’t have him infecting the whole station.”

Celina’s stomach flipped.

There was something about the way she said roommate — light, teasing, but weighted. Like Lucy knew exactly where to poke.

“He’s not my—” Celina started, the words more defensive than she intended.

Lucy grinned, victorious. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Celina opened her mouth, closed it, and turned away before Lucy could see her blush creep in.

The protein bar felt heavier in her hand now.

Lucy found Tim at his desk, tapping at his keyboard with that permanently unimpressed expression he’d perfected years ago. The kind that said I’ve seen it all and none of it was worth my time .

She leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed her arms. “You see her?”

Tim didn’t look up. “You mean the one you nearly cornered like a suspect?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “She looks like she’s running on two hours of sleep and a half-eaten protein bar.”

“Probably is,” Tim muttered, eyes still on his screen. “I think the vending machine’s been her main food group this week.”

Lucy studied him. “You’re worried about her too.”

He sighed and finally looked up. “Of course I am. She’s a good cop, but she’s carrying a lot right now. And having that—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—situation at home probably isn’t helping.”

“You mean Miles?”

Tim gave her a flat look. “You say that like it’s not a big deal.”

Lucy shrugged, lips tugging upward. “It’s not a bad deal.”

Tim groaned. “Oh god, here we go.”

But Lucy leaned in, lowering her voice with a grin.

“Come on, Tim. You don’t think it’s a little sweet? He’s helping her out. You’ve seen the notes he leaves her.”

Tim grunted. “Yeah, I’ve also seen the way she looks at him—like she’s trying not to.”

That gave Lucy pause. Her smile faded into something softer, more knowing. “You know what I think?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“She’s scared.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Scared of what?”

Lucy’s voice was quieter now, thoughtful.

“Of wanting someone she didn’t plan to want. Of needing someone when she’s used to handling everything herself.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Regret.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I get that.”

Lucy reached out, warm fingers brushing his hand, grounding him. “We both do.”

He looked at her, and his mouth curved just slightly. “Yeah.”

Lucy straightened, smile returning full force. “Come on, Sergeant Softie. We’ve got a shift to finish.”

Tim snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

She was already walking away. “Too late.”

Back at her desk, she pulled out her phone and saw Rodge’s name at the top of her messages.

Sorry. Crazy day. Miss you.

She stared at the screen, waiting for… something. A second message. A joke. A dumb selfie. Anything that felt like him. Like them.

But that was it.

She typed: Miss you too. Stay safe.

Then deleted it.

Then typed: Hope you’re okay.

Then deleted that too.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, but nothing she could write felt right. It all sounded like reaching. Like trying too hard to hold onto something that was slipping.

She set the phone down, face-down.

Her head throbbed.

She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, but the silence around her was deafening — like it was trying to remind her of everything she wasn’t saying out loud. Not to Rodge. Not to Miles. Not even to herself.

And the worst part?

She didn’t miss Rodge the way she thought she would.

She missed being missed .

The ache behind her eyes turned into a full-on headache by the time she got home.

She dropped her keys on the counter and kicked off her shoes, cursing under her breath when her head swam.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

She looked around. The kitchen was still spotless. The dish towel still folded too neatly. She hated how the apartment felt like someone else’s space now. Like she’d left and come back to find a different version of her life waiting.

She reached for the mug he always left on the counter, the one that said World’s Okayest Cop in bold, chipped letters. She didn’t remember when that started being his mug, but it was.

She hated that, too.

She sank onto the couch and rubbed her temples. The ache was getting worse.

Then she heard the door click.

Miles.

She didn’t look up as he dropped his bag by the door.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, like he could already tell something was off.

She didn’t answer.

“Long day?”

She shrugged.

He hesitated. “I, uh… I made soup. Thought you might want some.”

She scowled. “I didn’t ask for that.”

His face fell, just a little. “I know. But I—”

“You’re making this feel like your place, and it’s not,” she snapped.

Silence.

Then, quieter: “What if I want it to be?”

Her chest tightened. She stood up too fast. “I can handle my own space.”

She stormed down the hall, leaving him standing there.

She stormed down the hall, feet heavy against the floorboards, the sound louder than it needed to be — like it had to drown out the ache behind her ribs.

The bedroom door didn’t slam, but she shut it with enough force to make the frame shudder.

She leaned against it, hands shaking. Her head throbbed, worse now — like her body was punishing her for all the things she couldn’t say without breaking.

In the kitchen, she heard nothing. No footsteps. No retreat. Just stillness.

She hated herself for how his face looked when she said it — like she’d pulled the rug out from under him without warning.

Like he’d been hoping this space could be something more, and she’d just reminded him it wasn’t.

Or that she wasn’t ready.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut, as if it could hold the feelings in place.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him here.

It was that he’d gotten in without asking — slipped past her defenses with folded dish towels and leftover soup — and now she didn’t know how to exist in the space they shared without seeing him in everything.

And that terrified her more than being alone ever did.

Miles didn’t move.

The door shut behind her like punctuation — sharp and final.

He stood in the middle of the living room, hands still curled slightly like he didn’t know what to do with them. The bag at his feet. The soup cooling on the stove. Her silence sitting heavy in the air.

He hadn’t meant to make her feel cornered. Or invaded. Or whatever that reaction had been.

He just… noticed things. The way she winced in the hallway light. The way her shoulders hunched when she was fighting a headache. The way she didn’t ask for help, not because she didn’t want it — but because she didn’t know how to let it in.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly.

What if I want it to be?

He hadn’t planned to say that. The words had just… slipped out. Too raw. Too real.

He moved to the kitchen and shut off the stove. The soup was probably ruined by now. He didn’t care. He poured it into a container anyway and slid it into the fridge. Quiet movements. Careful ones.

She’d had a long day. She was probably sick. She didn’t mean it.

He told himself that, even as his chest tightened.

Then, without thinking, he reached for the sticky note pad on the counter. Same yellow squares. Same pen tucked beside the sugar canister. He scribbled something down, ripped it off, and left it beside her mug.

He didn’t knock on her door. Didn’t call out.

Just turned off the light and went to his room.

The apartment stayed quiet. But it didn’t feel peaceful anymore.

She slammed the bedroom door a little too hard.

Her heart pounded like she’d run a mile. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to slow. It didn’t.

The air in her room felt too heavy. Too still. Like the silence was watching her.

She couldn’t get his voice out of her head.

What if I want it to be?

Fourteen words. That’s all it took to unravel her.

She hated how they clung to her skin. How they echoed louder the more she tried to shut them out.

She wanted to be angry.

She was angry.

Angry that he was always so gentle. That he noticed too much. That he made space for her like it was easy, like she didn’t take up too much room.

She hated the way her chest tightened — not with resentment, but with the kind of ache that had hope hidden inside it.

And beneath all of it, something warm and terrifying was unfurling.

Slow. Relentless. Uninvited.

The kind of want that crept in when you weren’t looking. The kind that made her imagine things she had no right to want.

She didn’t want to think about that.

She didn’t want to want that.

So she crawled into bed, pulled the covers over her head like they could block out the truth, and let the silence press in again.

A knock on her door.

She ignored it.

Another knock. Softer this time.

“Celina?”

His voice was careful. Like he knew she was on the edge of something and didn’t want to tip her over.

She didn’t answer.

A beat of silence. Then his footsteps, retreating down the hall.

She let out a shaky breath and pressed her forehead to the cool wall. It didn’t help.

Her head throbbed. Her throat felt raw. She was definitely getting sick.

But that wasn’t what had her so twisted up inside.

It was him.

His notes. His cooking. His cleaning. His way of slipping into her life like he’d always been there.

His making things easier without ever making her feel small.

His making her feel like she wasn’t alone anymore.

And the terrifying part wasn’t that she liked it.

It was that she needed it.

And she didn’t know how to ask him to stop without asking him to leave.

And that thought — that maybe he would — made her stomach ache worse than her head.

She curled her knees to her chest, suddenly cold.

She didn’t want to want him.

But God, she didn’t want to lose him either.

When she finally came out of her room, the kitchen was empty.

Too empty.

No footsteps. No music from his room. Just the low hum of the fridge and the ache still pounding at her temples.

He’d cleaned up dinner. Washed the dishes. Wiped the counters. Like he was trying to erase any evidence of being in the way.

The soup pot sat on the stove, still warm. The lid slightly askew like he hadn’t wanted to close it all the way. Like maybe, just maybe, he thought she’d still want some.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t know how to say thank you.

Didn’t know how to say sorry.

Didn’t know how to say stay.

She stood there for a long minute, staring at the pot like it might answer her questions. Like it might explain how something so simple could make her feel so undone.

Then she saw it—a sticky note on the fridge.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. — M.”

Her fingers trembled as she peeled it off.

She folded the note into a tiny square and slipped it into her notebook on the counter. The one she used for shifts and reports and reminders she didn’t trust herself to remember.

She didn’t throw it away.

Didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t want to.

She ran a hand through her hair, feeling the weight of everything.

Her scalp ached. Her chest felt too tight. Her head was still pounding — from the headache, from the fight, from everything she hadn’t said.

She hated how easy it was to let him in.
Hated how natural it had started to feel — the shared coffee, the half-spoken routines, the way he somehow always knew what she needed before she did.

She hated how she missed him when he wasn’t here.

How the silence pressed harder when it was just her.

How his presence had started to make the apartment feel… less empty. Less sharp.

More like home.

And that scared her more than she could admit.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms.

She was too tired to fight.

Too tired to build the walls back up tonight.

So she didn’t.

She just stood there, soup warming on the stove, sticky note tucked into her notebook, and let herself miss him.

She went to bed early that night, hoping sleep would quiet everything swirling in her head.

But her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

Her body was exhausted, but her brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept replaying everything — the silence in the kitchen, the sticky note on the fridge, the look on his face when she snapped at him.

And then… that other look.

The one just before he’d left her room alone.

The one that said I’d stay if you asked me to.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

The slope of his shoulders as he stood in the doorway.

The way his voice softened around her name.

The way he made her feel like she didn’t have to pretend she was fine all the time.

She pressed her pillow over her head and groaned, muffling the sound against cotton and frustration.

She didn’t want this to be a thing.

She didn’t want him to be a thing.

And yet—

She’d had the chance to push him away. To draw the line, make it clean.

But she hadn’t.

Because as much as it scared her…

She didn’t want him to go.

Sometime past midnight, she heard him moving around in the kitchen.

Cabinet doors opened softly. A glass clinked against the counter. The refrigerator hummed.

And then —

He started to hum.

Low. Gentle. Barely above a whisper.

The same tune he’d hummed the first night he’d stayed over, when everything had still felt temporary. A melody without words, half-forgotten and somehow familiar.

She remembered lying on the couch that night, half-asleep, listening to it float through the dark like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

Now, lying in bed, the sound tugged at something in her chest.

She wanted to hate it.

She tried to hate it.

But it felt like a lullaby — soft around the edges, anchoring her in the quiet. The kind of sound that made the apartment feel less lonely. Less hers. More theirs.

And she hated that even more.

Because no one should be able to make her feel safe just by existing in the next room.

But somehow, he did.

She got up, throat scratchy, head pounding.

The apartment was dark except for the soft yellow glow spilling from the kitchen. She padded down the hall, bare feet silent against the floor, and leaned against the doorway.

Miles stood by the stove, stirring the soup he’d made earlier, his back to her at first.

The humming had stopped.

He looked up when he saw her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head.

“Me neither,” he said, offering a small, tired smile.

She didn’t move from the doorway.

Didn’t speak.

Her arms crossed over her chest, like she was still holding herself together by force. But her eyes stayed on him.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else — fragile, unfinished. Like they were both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Steam curled from the pot behind him.

She swallowed hard, throat dry.

“Still warm?” she asked, finally.

He nodded. “I was gonna put it away. Figured maybe… you’d want some.”

A beat.

She stepped into the room.

Not close. Not yet. But closer.

Her voice was quieter this time. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. He just reached for a second bowl.

“You should eat,” he said quietly.

She wanted to argue, but her head felt too heavy.

“I’m fine,” she managed.

“You’re not,” he replied, voice calm but firm.

She hated how he could see through her so easily.

He ladled soup into a bowl and set it on the counter, then added a piece of bread on a small plate.

“Sit,” he said, nodding to the stool at the counter.

She hesitated, but her legs felt weak.

She sat.

He slid the bowl toward her.

“Try.”

She picked up the spoon, but her hands were shaking.

Miles watched her, eyes soft but steady.

“Let me.”

She glared. “I’m not an invalid.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you were.”

But he gently took the spoon from her, and for a second — just a second — she let him.

He blew on the soup before lifting it to her lips.

The warmth surprised her.

The care made her throat ache.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to hold the weight of being cared for — not without feeling like it cost her something.

But Miles didn’t rush her. Didn’t press.

He just held the spoon steady, waiting.

She took the sip. Swallowed.

It settled warm in her chest.

He offered another, and this time she didn’t glare. She just leaned forward slightly, meeting him halfway.

When she’d had enough, she shook her head, barely.

He set the spoon down.

Neither of them spoke.

Her hands stayed curled around the edge of the bowl like she needed something solid to grip.

His elbows rested on the counter, close but not touching.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was thick with things unsaid. With everything she hadn’t pushed him away for. With everything she wasn’t ready to name.

She didn’t thank him.

He didn’t ask her to.

But when he stood to rinse the spoon, she didn’t leave. She just sat there, head bowed over the soup, letting the warmth linger.

Letting him linger.

And for once, she didn’t hate that either.

He watched her as she swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut as the heat spread through her chest.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged,” he said softly.

She didn’t deny it.

“Rodge doesn’t even know,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Miles’ face didn’t change, but his eyes did — a flicker of something she didn’t want to name.

“Then tell him,” he said, voice low.

She opened her eyes, met his gaze. “And what? He’ll say sorry. Tell me to rest. Then hang up.”

She didn’t know why she was saying this.

Didn’t know why she was telling him .

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

Just watched her.

His presence felt like a pressure she didn’t know how to carry — like he’d become part of the space in a way she couldn’t undo.

“Go to bed,” he said gently.

She hesitated, then stood, legs unsteady.

At the edge of the hallway, she paused and turned back.

“Miles…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft, like it might break if she spoke too loud.

He smiled. “Anytime.”

She slipped down the hall and closed her bedroom door.

Behind her, she heard the clink of dishes being cleaned. The hum of his voice, low and steady.

And she knew — even if she didn’t want to admit it — that he was becoming something she wasn’t sure she could live without.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: I’m Fine, It’s Just Allergies 

Celina’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Everything was foggy — like she was moving underwater. Her throat was raw, her skin too warm, and the dull ache behind her eyes pulsed with every heartbeat, turning the morning light into a migraine.

She groaned and sat on the edge of her bed, pressing her fingertips into her temples like that would somehow stop the pounding.

It’s fine, she told herself.

She said it out loud, like maybe hearing the words would make them true.

“It’s just allergies.”

Her voice came out hoarse.

She didn’t look in the mirror when she pulled on her uniform — didn’t want to see how tired she looked. How flushed her face was. How her eyes had that glassy, too-bright shine.

“It’s just allergies,” she repeated, forcing her hair into a ponytail with shaking hands.

She told herself that three more times — once while pulling on her boots, again while grabbing her keys, and once more as she opened the door.

She didn’t believe it.

But she needed to.

At the precinct, she tried to act normal.

She’d done it a thousand times — pushed through headaches, fevers, bruises — because that was the job. You showed up. You dealt with it. You didn’t let anyone see you crack.

But Lucy saw right through her.

“Wow,” Lucy said, eyebrows shooting up. “You look like death warmed over.”

Celina glared. “Thanks.”

Lucy’s teasing smile faded as she stepped closer. Her voice lowered, softer now.

“Hey—seriously, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Celina snapped, sharper than she meant to.

Lucy blinked, but didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly, like she recognized the walls for what they were. “Okay. But if you faint on me, I’m not catching you. Shoulder injuries suck.”

Celina rolled her eyes and turned away.

She made it three steps before the room tilted — just slightly, like the floor dipped beneath her boots. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She blinked hard, hoping it would pass.

Lucy didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move either.

Just watched her with that quiet knowing that made Celina feel too seen.

She made it to her desk, barely, clutching the edge as she sat down like it was normal — like her limbs weren’t heavy and her vision wasn’t still swimming at the edges. She started pulling up her tablet, blinking hard at the screen.

“You look like you’re trying to win a staring contest with the iPad,” Miles said, appearing beside her, coffee in hand.

She didn’t even look up. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when you look like you’ve been run over by a garbage truck,” he replied easily. “Twice.”

She scowled, but the reaction took effort. “I’m fine.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that today.”

“You counting now?”

He didn’t answer. Just crouched a little so he was eye level. “You’re pale. You’re sweating. You look like you might throw up or pass out, possibly both.”

“I’m working,” she snapped.

Lucy, who was still watching from her desk nearby, leaned over. “You’re trying to work.”

Celina opened her mouth to argue—something sharp, something practiced—but her vision blurred again, and her stomach twisted in warning.

She pressed her lips together. Hard.

Miles stood. “Okay. That’s it. You’re done.”

She glared up at him. “You don’t get to tell me—”

“Celina,” Lucy cut in gently. “Come on. You’re clearly not okay.”

“I have to finish the call logs,” she muttered, weakly motioning toward the screen.

“I’ll do them,” Miles said, already reaching. “Go lie down. Drink water. Eat something. Take a damn breath.”

She hesitated — stubborn to the bone.

But her body betrayed her first. Her hand shook as she reached for the tablet, and Miles caught it before she could drop it. He didn’t say anything. Just held it steady for a second. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Go,” he said again, quieter this time.

And for once — she did.

Tim found her in the hallway ten minutes later. She was leaning against the wall, trying to look casual. She wasn’t. He studied her with that sergeant’s stare that made rookies crumble.

“You look like hell,” he said bluntly.

“Thanks,” she muttered, trying to push off the wall and stand straight. Her knees didn’t love that idea.

He crossed his arms. “Go home.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, wincing as the words scraped her throat.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You’re fine, ” he repeated, like he was testing the word and finding it laughable. “You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re about one step from passing out. Go home.”

She scowled, stubborn on instinct. “I can handle it.”

His voice dropped. Firm. Final. “Don’t make me write you up for endangering the entire precinct.”

She opened her mouth, halfway through a retort, but the hallway tilted. Her head swam, and she had to press her palm to the wall just to stay upright.

Tim reached out instinctively — didn’t touch her, but hovered close, just in case.

“Fine,” she muttered, breath shallow. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he deadpanned. “Get out of here before I call Lucy and tell her you licked a suspect.”

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

She didn’t look back as she walked away, but Tim waited until she disappeared around the corner before pulling out his phone.

Celina left the precinct with a muttered curse, clutching her phone like it was the only thing holding her together.

The air hit her like static — too bright, too sharp — and she blinked against the sunlight as she reached her car. She leaned against it for a second, eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing. The ache behind her eyes had bloomed into a full-on headache, radiating down her neck. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Every swallow hurt.

She unlocked her phone and scrolled to Rodge’s contact. Her thumb hovered over it. She told herself she just needed to hear a familiar voice.

Something normal. Something safe.

She hesitated. Then pressed call.

It rang twice. Three times.

“Hey,” he answered, sounding distracted. Background noise. A keyboard clacking. A door shutting.

“Everything okay?”

She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “Yeah. Just—long day. Thought I’d check in.”

“Ah. Yeah. Work’s crazy. Can I call you later?”

She closed her eyes. Felt the words sink, heavy and cold.

“Sure.”

“Thanks. You’re the best,” he said absently, already halfway gone.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Talk soon.”

The line went dead.

She stared at the phone, her fingers slack around it.

She didn’t know why she’d expected anything different.

She didn’t know what she’d been hoping for — a pause, a question, a flicker of concern in his voice. Something.

Anything.

Instead, it felt like calling out across a canyon and getting her own echo back.

Meanwhile, inside the precinct, Tim watched her go. He scowled at her retreating form, jaw tight. She was walking too fast for someone who looked like she might pass out. He pulled out his phone. Miles answered on the second ring.

“Bradford?”

“It’s Tim.”

“Uh, hey. Everything okay?”

Tim exhaled. “Chen tells me Celina’s sick. She’s too stubborn to admit it, but she looks like she’s about to fall over.”

There was a pause. Then Miles’ voice, sharp now. “She didn’t say anything.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Tim muttered. “But she’s on her way home. She needs someone to make sure she doesn’t… well, you know. Be her.”

Miles didn’t speak right away. But when he did, his voice was different — focused. Steady.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Tim nodded, even though Miles couldn’t see him. “Good. I’m trusting you with this.”

“Got it,” Miles said. No hesitation.

Tim ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He shook his head. “She’s gonna kill me for that.”

But he didn’t regret it.

Because for all her walls and stubborn fire, she needed someone to catch her before she hit the ground. And Tim Bradford had learned to recognize the people worth calling reinforcements for.

Miles hung up the phone and stared at the screen for a beat.

Tim Bradford was a lot of things — tough, no-nonsense, occasionally terrifying — but he didn’t call just to check in. If Tim was reaching out, it meant Celina was worse off than she let on.

And Celina always downplayed everything.

Miles didn’t waste time.

He grabbed his keys, his jacket, and the bag of groceries he’d planned to unpack after work — the one with the orange juice she liked, the bread she never bought for herself, and the ginger tea he kept around “just in case.”

Apparently, today was the case.

He barely locked the door behind him. The drive was a blur — part muscle memory, part adrenaline. His grip on the wheel was tighter than usual. Every red light felt personal. By the time he made it to her building, he was already planning what to say. Or not say. He wasn’t sure yet.

But one thing he knew for sure —

She was going to hate that he showed up.

And he was going to show up anyway.

He was at her door in less than fifteen minutes. The hallway outside her unit was dim, quiet. He could hear muffled footsteps from upstairs, someone’s TV through the wall. But her door — her door was still.

He knocked once. Waited.

No answer.

His hand hovered near the handle. He knew she’d never lock it when she was this sick. Stubborn, sure — but paranoid? No.

He turned the knob and stepped inside. The apartment was dark except for the low, amber glow spilling from the kitchen. Something about it made him pause.

It was too quiet.

He closed the door behind him gently, setting the grocery bag down on the floor without a sound.

Then he saw her.

Curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, eyes half-closed. Still in uniform. Pale. Motionless.

His stomach dropped.

She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours. Like the apartment had just swallowed her whole.

“Hey,” he said gently, not wanting to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Miles,” she croaked.

His chest tightened. “You sound like you gargled glass.”

She tried to glare, but it came out more like a grimace. “Shut up.”

He moved closer, dropping the groceries on the counter. “Let me make you some tea.”

She groaned. “I don’t need tea.”

He ignored her, already filling the kettle.

She watched him, too tired to protest. He moved around the kitchen like he’d always been there — rinsing the mug, checking the kettle, opening cabinets without asking. Like he knew the rhythm of the place better than she did.

Like he belonged.

And maybe that was what scared her most.

Because she’d built this space to be hers. Controlled. Safe. A place to come home to, not share.

But here he was, weaving himself into the quiet — not demanding space, just occupying it in a way that made her chest ache.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to slow the thrum in her head. And when she opened them, he was already in front of her, mug in hand, holding it out like it was more than just tea.

Like it was an offering.

She leaned back on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her. Her head felt like it was full of fog, and her throat burned every time she swallowed.

Miles moved around the kitchen, making tea like he’d done it a thousand times before.

She hated how comforting it was.

“You didn’t have to come,” she muttered, voice scratchy.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Tim called me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

He shrugged. “Said you were being stubborn. That you wouldn’t take care of yourself.”

She groaned. “I’m going to kill him.”

Miles smirked. “Good luck with that. He’s like a brick wall.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s nosy.”

“He’s worried about you,” Miles said, voice soft.

Something about the way he said it — not accusing, not teasing — made her stomach twist.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how.

Because if she said anything, it might come out wrong. Or worse — too honest.

So she looked away instead. Let the silence stretch.

And Miles didn’t push.

He just kept making tea.

He brought her the tea, setting it carefully on the coffee table.

“Drink,” he ordered.

She tried to glare, but it didn’t land. Her face was too tired, her body too sore. It came out more like a blink and a half-hearted pout. He sat beside her — not too close, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, steady and solid, like a blanket she hadn’t asked for but needed anyway. She picked up the mug with both hands, fingers curled tightly around the ceramic, and took a slow sip.

The heat slid down her throat like a balm. She didn’t realize how much she needed it until she exhaled. Miles didn’t say anything. Just sat with her — patient, steady, completely unmoved by her silence.

He wasn’t trying to fix her.

He was just… there.

And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. She didn’t know.

It made her chest ache in ways she wasn’t ready to name.

Ways she’d been trying not to feel for weeks.

She kept sipping the tea.

He didn’t look away.

She finished the tea and set the cup down with trembling hands. It clinked awkwardly against the edge of the table.

Miles reached over without a word, steadying the cup before it could fall. His fingers brushed hers. Warm. Solid.

“You need to rest,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she muttered automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

She scowled. “Don’t start.”

He didn’t.

Didn’t push, didn’t prod.

Instead, he stood and grabbed the grocery bag from the counter, moving with that same frustrating calm. One by one, he started unpacking: a can of soup, a box of crackers, tissues, cold medicine. Orange juice.

“Really?” she asked, incredulous, voice raspy with disbelief.

He shrugged, barely looking at her. “Just in case.”

She watched him for a long beat — the way he moved so easily through her kitchen, like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t weird. Like he knew she’d need this and had already decided to show up before she’d admit it.

She was too tired to argue.

Too tired to pretend his presence didn’t feel like relief.

Too tired to lie to herself about how good it felt to have someone stay.

She leaned back, eyes slipping closed.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Her lashes fluttered. “Hm?”

He was still beside her, voice low, gaze steady. He smiled — not wide, not showy. Just warm. Just him.

“Sleep. I’ll be here.”

She wanted to tell him to leave.

She wanted to tell him to stay.

She did neither.

Instead, she let her eyes fall shut, the weight of the day pressing into her bones. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers loosened around the edge of the blanket.

Miles didn’t move for a long time. Just watched her — her brow still furrowed in sleep, the way her lips parted slightly as she exhaled.

Then, quietly, he stood.

He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, tucking it gently under her arm like he’d done this before. Like he’d thought about doing it before.

She didn’t stir.

He took the empty mug to the kitchen, rinsed it out, turned off the light. Moved through the apartment like it was something breakable.

And when he finally sank into the armchair across from her —
he didn’t pull out his phone.

Didn’t scroll.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched her.
Safe. Warm. Still.

And stayed.

Miles sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting lightly on his knees, eyes on her face.

Her breathing had started to even out, slow and soft, the way it only did when she finally stopped fighting sleep. But her face still looked too pale in the lamplight, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead and temples. He reached for the damp cloth he’d left folded on the table.

Gently — carefully — he dabbed it across her skin, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Her brow twitched, lips parting with a faint sound he couldn’t quite make out.

She murmured something, half-asleep. Something he didn’t catch.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

He smiled, just a little. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his mouth so much as settle behind his eyes.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’ve got you.”

And in that quiet, lamplit room — with only the hum of the fridge and the steady sound of her breathing — it felt like a promise.

He leaned back, exhaustion starting to catch up with him too. The room was warm and quiet, the kind of silence that settled into your bones. His eyes flicked toward her — still curled beneath the blanket, her breathing soft and even now. She looked younger like this. Softer. Like maybe the world had finally let her rest.

His mind drifted.

To the first time he’d stayed here.

To the awkward dance of “just roommates” and half-joked boundaries.

To the first sticky note he’d left on the fridge — and the second, and the third.

She’d rolled her eyes at the first few. Pretended not to care. But then… she started keeping them. Tucking them into her notebook. Slipping them between pages like bookmarks she didn’t want to lose. She never said anything about it. But she never threw them away.

She’d let him in more than she probably realized.

And he’d let her in too.

Somewhere along the way, she’d become the first person he thought about texting at the end of a shift. The first person he noticed wasn’t at the precinct. The only person he’d drop everything for on a call from Bradford.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, suddenly too aware of the way his heart had started rearranging itself around her.

He didn’t mean to fall.

But he was already there.

He hummed under his breath — an old Spanish lullaby his mom used to sing when he was a kid.

He hadn’t thought about it. It just… slipped out. Instinct. Muscle memory. Comfort wrapped in melody.

The kind of sound you don’t even notice until it’s already in the room.

He didn’t realize she was awake until he heard her whisper:

“My mom used to sing that.”

He froze.

The tune faded on his lips.

Slowly, he turned toward her.

Her eyes were open, glassy with unshed tears that clung to the corners. She wasn’t really looking at him — more like staring past him, like the memory had taken her somewhere else entirely.

“Before I left,” she added, voice raw. Small.

His chest ached.

So much grief, tucked into six words.

He wanted to hold her. To say something that would make it better — or at least less heavy. But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he reached for her hand. Then stopped, fingers hovering just above hers.

“Can I?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t speak.

Just nodded, once. Sharp. Almost broken.

And when his hand wrapped gently around hers, she didn’t pull away.

She just held on.

Like maybe this — he — was the only solid thing left in the room.

Miles took her hand in his — warm and solid.

He squeezed gently, not too tight. Just enough to say I’m here.

Her fingers curled around his, weak but certain.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept humming the lullaby, the words soft and low, filling the quiet with something that felt like comfort. Like memory without pain. Like presence without pressure.

“Duérmete mi niña,
duérmete mi sol…”

Her breath hitched.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small sound that broke the stillness like a crack in glass.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t ask.

“Duérmete pedazo
de mi corazón…”

The words were barely more than a whisper. Familiar. Worn. Full of years.

He wanted to ask her about her mom. What happened. Where it hurt. How long she'd carried the weight of that absence alone.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew sometimes silence was the only answer that felt right.

So he just stayed beside her.

Singing a song they both remembered for different reasons.

Letting her hold his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment.

When the song ended, the apartment felt still.

Not empty — just… suspended. Like even the air didn’t want to break the moment.

Celina’s eyes were closed, lashes dark against her skin, but a single tear slid down her cheek.

Miles reached up, thumb brushing it away with the gentlest touch. He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t need to.

“Sleep,” he said softly.

She didn’t open her eyes, but she nodded — the barest movement, fragile and full of trust.

And in that small, quiet moment — her hand in his, her defenses finally down —

he let himself think that maybe,

just maybe,

this was something worth hoping for.

He watched her drift off, her breathing evening out — slow, steady, peaceful in a way she rarely let herself be.

His heart ached — for her, for him, for the space between them that somehow felt impossibly big and unbearably small all at once. He let go of her hand gently and stood. Moving quietly, he made his way into the kitchen. Tidied up. Covered the soup. Left the medicine where she’d see it. Every movement was careful, practiced — like a ritual.

Then he reached for the sticky notes.

He scribbled something quickly, the words coming easier than he expected. Then peeled it free and stuck it to the edge of the coffee table, right where she’d see it when she woke.

You’re stronger than you think.
I’ve got you.
— M.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her sleep.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

Didn’t know what she’d say. Or what he’d say back.

But for tonight, he was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Miles tucked the blanket tighter around Celina’s shoulders, his heart aching at the way she shivered even in sleep.

He exhaled slowly, then reached for his phone.

FaceTimed Tim first.

It rang twice before the screen lit up with Bradford’s face — looking, somehow, both grumpy and concerned.

“Bradford,” Miles said, voice low. “She’s asleep. Fever’s down. I—”

Tim cut him off. “Good. She’s stubborn. Don’t let her tell you she’s fine.”

Miles smiled weakly. “Yeah, I got that memo.”

Before he could say more, Lucy’s face popped up beside Tim’s on the screen, eyes wide and warm.

“Is she okay? Do you need anything?”

Miles shook his head. “No, she’s… she’s okay. Sleeping.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “You’re a good one, Miles.”

He felt heat rise to his neck. Looked away for a second. “Just… didn’t want her to be alone.”

Tim’s voice came through, quieter now. “You’re doing good, kid.”

Miles nodded. “Thanks.”

Lucy leaned closer to the camera, her voice softer than before. “She’s lucky to have you there.”

His smile turned gentle. A little raw. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

On the screen, Lucy and Tim exchanged a look he couldn’t quite read.

Then Tim said, “Take care of her.”

Miles didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

He ended the call and set the phone down, staring at the darkened screen for a long moment — his reflection faint against the black glass.

He glanced at Celina — still asleep on the couch, her face turned toward the back cushions, the blanket rising and falling with her breaths.

“Always,”

he whispered again, just for himself.

Tim set the phone down on the nightstand.

Lucy was already pulling her hair up, settling against the pillows. “They’re so doomed,” she said.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“In the absolutely going to fall for each other but won’t admit it until it hurts kind of way.”

He grunted. “Sounds familiar.”

She smirked. “You were worse.”

“I was careful,” he corrected.

“You were emotionally constipated.”

Tim snorted, then sobered.

“He really cares about her.”

Lucy’s smile softened. “Yeah. She’s not easy to let in. And he didn’t even knock.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Tim added, “She’s scared. But he makes it easier.”

Lucy nodded. “Like someone else I know.”

He gave her a look.

She leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “It’s a compliment, Bradford.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away. “If he hurts her—”

“He won’t,” Lucy said gently. “He’s already in too deep.”

They both looked toward the phone like it might light up again.

“Good,” Tim said finally. “About time someone saw her.”

Lucy squeezed his hand under the blanket.

“They see each other.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Late Night, Low Battery, Long Looks 

Celina woke up feeling marginally better, but every part of her felt bruised.

Not just sore — bruised . Like the fever had wrung her out and left her hollow, like her body had finally slowed down enough to feel everything at once.

Her head ached. Her throat was raw. Her limbs ached in that heavy, dull way that made everything feel like too much effort.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was the sticky note on the table beside her.

You’re stronger than you think.
I’ve got you.
— M.

The handwriting was familiar. Slanted. Fast. Like he always wrote notes in motion — like the words were coming out faster than he could keep them in.

She stared at it for a long time.

Didn’t pick it up. Just looked at it, as if the message might change the longer she sat with it. Her fingers hovered before they finally reached out and traced the ink, soft and careful. Like touching it might make it feel less real.

She should’ve been annoyed.

He’d taken over her space, her kitchen, her quiet. Slipped into her life like it was easy — like he hadn’t asked permission and didn’t think he needed to. But all she felt was a sharp ache in her chest that made her want to cry. She folded the note slowly, creasing it right down the center, and walked to the shelf where her notebook sat — the one with tabs and receipts and reminders she pretended to need. She slid the note into the back pocket.

Right next to the others.

She wasn’t sure when she’d started collecting them.

The first few had been easy to ignore. A joke. A phase .

But somewhere between "Don’t forget lunch today" and "You’ve got this — even when you don’t feel like you do," she'd stopped throwing them away.

And now?

Now she couldn’t.

She lingered near the shelf for a moment, notebook in hand, thumb resting on the worn corner of the cover.

Then, slowly, she sank onto the edge of the couch — blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, the quiet of the apartment pressing in like a held breath.

She opened the back pocket of the notebook.

The sticky notes weren’t neatly arranged. They were tucked in haphazardly — some creased, some curling at the edges, a few smudged from being handled too many times.

She pulled one out.

"Leftover pasta in the fridge. Don’t fight me — just eat it."

The corner was stained with what looked like sauce. She remembered rolling her eyes at it. Pretending she wasn’t touched. But she’d eaten it. Every bite.

She unfolded another.

"You don’t have to do everything alone."

That one had landed too close. She remembered leaving it on the counter for a full day before finally sliding it into the notebook without a word.

Another.

"The coffee tastes better when you’re around. (I won’t admit this again.)"

That one made her throat tighten. Her eyes skimmed each note like they were made of glass. Little pieces of him — of care, of comfort, of a thousand things they hadn’t said out loud.She didn’t know when it had started meaning something.

When he had started meaning something.

But now, sitting there with her knees tucked up and a stack of sticky notes pressed between her fingers like they were sacred, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t. She swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes. And then, as if her body couldn’t hold any more of it, she pressed the notes back into the pocket and shut the notebook with trembling hands.

Because if she let herself feel all of it now —

she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.

She had just slipped the last note into the back pocket and closed the notebook when she heard the soft sound of footsteps behind her. She startled slightly, spine straightening. Miles stood in the doorway, two mugs in hand, hair slightly messy, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“I made coffee,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want some.”

She nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He crossed the room, setting one mug on the table beside her. His eyes flicked to the notebook in her lap, then back to her face. He didn’t ask. She tucked it under the blanket beside her like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

He didn’t call her on it.

Just sat down across from her, nursing his own cup. The silence stretched. Not awkward, exactly — but full. Heavy. Like there were too many things floating between them they didn’t know how to name yet.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, finally.

“Yeah,” she said. “Better.”

He nodded. “Good.”

She took a sip of the coffee — hot, just the way she liked it. Probably on purpose. Her throat ached, but the warmth helped.

She didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did, she was afraid he’d see it — the softness in her chest, the storm she’d just shoved back into a notebook. So instead, she stared into her mug like it could anchor her.

And Miles?

He let her.

Because he knew whatever she wasn’t saying — she would. Eventually.

And when she did, he’d still be sitting right there.

Celina made it to the precinct later than usual, sunglasses on, hair pulled back, and an oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She looked better. But still not great.

Lucy caught her by the coffee machine, leaning casually against the counter, eyes sharp and unrelenting.

“Hey,” she said. “You look… better.”

Celina shot her a look over the lid of her travel mug. “Thanks for that.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “No fever today?”

Celina shifted, suddenly interested in the drip of the coffee machine. “No. Just tired.”

Lucy didn’t press — not immediately.

Her voice softened, just enough. “He took care of you, didn’t he?”

Celina didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The way her grip tightened on the mug. The way her eyes flicked away.

Lucy smiled, just a little. “He’s a good one.”

Celina bristled. “He’s my—”

“Roommate,” Lucy finished for her, grinning. “Yeah, I know.”

Celina glared. “Shut up.”

Lucy took a long, smug sip of her coffee. “You don’t fool me, Celina.”

Celina muttered something under her breath and walked off. But Lucy didn’t stop smiling.

Because for the first time, Celina hadn’t corrected her .

She’d just walked away.

And that said more than any confession could.

Tim walked up behind Lucy, coffee in hand. He took one look at Celina and gave her that gruff, no-nonsense stare that made rookies rethink their entire lives.

“You look like hell warmed over,” he said.

Celina groaned. “Not you too.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “He called me, you know.”

Her stomach flipped. “Miles?”

He nodded. “Checked in after you went to sleep. Said your fever broke. Said you were out cold.”

Celina blinked. Swallowed hard.

Lucy’s smile turned soft around the edges. “That’s sweet.”

Tim grunted. “It’s… something.”

There was a beat of silence — not heavy, but full. Celina stared at the floor. At the way her shoes lined up unevenly. At the way her coffee rippled when her hand trembled just slightly. The words stuck in her throat. Tim reached out, his big hand landing on her shoulder — steady, grounding.

“You’re lucky to have someone like that around,” he said, voice low, quiet enough that it didn’t carry beyond the three of them.

Not a tease. Not a lecture. Just fact. She didn’t know what to say.

So she said nothing.

But she didn’t pull away either.

And Tim didn’t need her to say anything at all.

She found him in the locker room hallway, halfway through switching out gear. His back was to her at first — broad shoulders, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, sleeves rolled like he’d been working through something just to keep his hands busy. When he turned, their eyes met.

Only for a second.

Then she looked away, fast.

“Hey,” he said, careful.

“Hey,” she echoed, too quickly.

The silence hung between them. She moved to the other side of the hall, pretending to dig through her locker like it was urgent. Like she wasn’t hyper-aware of the fact that he was standing right there .

“You feeling better?” he asked, quieter now.

She nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”

Another pause.

“You, uh…” His voice trailed off. “You saw the note?”

She didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

He waited. Hoped. But she said nothing else. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the locker door like it might give her an excuse to leave.

“Celina,” he said softly.

She shut the locker with a little more force than necessary. “I’ve got to grab paperwork.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the reason she was walking away, either. She didn’t look back as she turned the corner. Didn’t see the way his shoulders slumped. The way he stood there for a second too long, still holding the jacket he hadn’t finished folding. He let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Then he turned, walked away, and didn’t chase her.

Not yet.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, frozen in the threshold like if she moved, it might break something. Miles hadn’t noticed her yet. He was humming — softly, absently — and she caught the faintest trace of it now, carried on the air between them. It was familiar, in the way things became familiar without asking permission. In the way he had. He set the mug down carefully, like it mattered.

Like everything he touched here mattered.

And for some stupid reason, that made her throat burn. She didn’t want this to be a thing. Didn’t want him to be a thing.

But the apartment didn’t feel right without him in it. Didn’t feel like hers anymore unless he was in the room. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it. Wasn’t ready to look at him and say thank you for last night , or sorry I ran , or please don’t go . So instead, she cleared her throat — soft, but just loud enough.

Miles turned, startled. His expression shifted — from surprise to something gentler. Something careful.

“Hey,” he said, pulling out one earbud.

Her voice was rough. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then he offered a small smile. “There’s soup in the fridge. And real bread this time.”

She looked down. Nodded.

“Thanks,” she said, barely audible.

He didn’t press her. Didn’t ask where she’d been all day or why she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He just nodded once. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

And as he disappeared down the hallway, the silence wrapped around her again — familiar, yes. But lonelier than it had been the night before.

He didn’t notice her right away. His head was tilted slightly, brow furrowed in that quiet way he got when he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere miles away from the kitchen, from the mug in his hands, from the girl standing just out of reach behind him.

Her.

The thought curled around her ribs too tight. She wondered if he was thinking about her — about last night, about her falling apart and letting him see it. About the lullaby. The fever. The hand she didn’t pull away from. She hated how much she wanted to know.

Hated how much she was afraid to find out.

Because what if he wasn’t thinking about her at all?

What if he was just here because he said he would be?

What if this was all in her head?

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She couldn’t look at him. Not yet. Not when her heart felt like a lit fuse in her chest, waiting for the next spark to set it off.

So she turned away — slow, careful — and padded down the hall like nothing had happened.

Like her world wasn’t tilting a little every time he was in it.

She cleared her throat, and he jumped, nearly dropping the mug.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling out one earbud. “You trying to kill me?”

She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe.”

He grinned. “You’re feeling better, then.”

She shrugged. “A little.”

He set the mug down and leaned against the counter, studying her like she was something he was trying to figure out.

“You need anything?” he asked, voice low, careful.

She shook her head. “No. Just… tired.”

His eyes softened. “Long day?”

She shrugged again. “Long week.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he probably did. His gaze lingered, just a second too long. She felt it — warm, steady, patient — and it made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with being tired. She shifted her weight, suddenly too aware of everything — of how close he was, of how soft his voice had been, of the way her name might sound if he ever said it like it meant something.

But he didn’t push.

He never did.

That was the problem.

He gave her space. Let her pretend. Let her be quiet and closed off and prickly without taking it personally. It made her want to cry. Instead, she forced a tight smile and turned away, mumbling something about getting changed.

He didn’t stop her.

But as she walked down the hallway, she could still feel his eyes on her back.

Like he was watching.

Waiting.

Like maybe he knew exactly what she wasn’t saying.

He gestured to the couch. “Want to sit?”

She hesitated. Then crossed the room and sank into the cushions, tucking her legs under her. He followed, settling on the opposite end.

The space between them felt too big and too small at the same time.

She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie, anything to keep her hands busy. He sat with one arm draped over the back of the couch, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough that it didn’t touch her.

Didn’t force anything.

It was infuriating. And comforting. And confusing. The silence stretched, soft and heavy. Not awkward. Not really. Just full. Like there were too many things unsaid sitting between them, crowding out the air.

She cleared her throat. “Thanks. For the tea. And… everything.”

He looked over, eyes steady. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” she said. But her voice cracked a little on the second word.

She hated that. He didn’t comment on it. Just gave her that look — the one that made her feel seen in a way that was both unbearable and impossible to turn away from.

“I meant it, you know,” he said after a moment.

She blinked. “Meant what?”

“The note,” he said simply. “All of it.”

Her chest ached again. That now-familiar, terrifying warmth.

She looked down at her hands. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

“I’m used to being alone,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on a water ring on the coffee table. “Even when I wasn’t.”

Miles didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just waited.

“I’ve never had someone… stay,” she added, barely louder than a whisper.

His fingers twitched where they rested against his leg, like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know if he should.

Then, softly: “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

That made her look at him — really look at him. His expression was open, steady. No pressure. Just truth. She hated how much that unraveled her. Because part of her wanted to believe it.
Wanted to let herself lean into that quiet promise.

But another part — the part that remembered too much, trusted too little — pulled back.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, her voice cracking at the edges.

He offered her a small, sad smile. “Me neither.”

And somehow, that helped. They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there — side by side, alone but not.

The silence didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Just… full of things not yet said.

She wanted to ask him why he stayed.

Why he kept leaving notes.

Why he cared so damn much.

But the words lodged in her throat, thick and unmovable. Because asking meant admitting she needed to know.

So instead, she stared at her hands and said, “Thanks for… you know. The tea. The soup. Everything.”

Miles didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her like he was reading every line on her face.

Then his voice, soft as ever: “Anytime.”

And he meant it. She felt the promise in it — quiet, unwavering, and far too dangerous.

Because if she let herself believe it…

She didn’t know who she’d be without it

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket she’d pulled off the back of the couch.

“You’re easy to be around,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

His brows knit. “Easy?”

She shook her head, frustrated at her own words. “I mean—comfortable. Like it’s… safe.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “That’s good, right?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

Because yes , it was good.

But it was also terrifying.

Safe wasn’t something she was used to.

Safe had strings.

Safe had stakes.

And Miles — Miles was becoming both.

He didn’t push. Just shifted slightly, resting his arm along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the quiet offer in it.

“I don’t mind being the safe one,” he said, voice low. “If that’s what you need.”

Her throat tightened. For a second, she almost told him everything — about the silence in her childhood apartment, about the way people always left, about how she’d taught herself not to rely on anyone just to survive.

But instead, she just whispered, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Miles looked at her, steady, unwavering.

“I’m not.”

And somehow, that scared her more than anything.

He leaned back, studying her. “You know I’m not trying to take over your life, right?”

She snorted. “Says the guy who leaves sticky notes like breadcrumbs.”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

She bit her lip. “Why?”

His smile faded. “Because… I want you to know you’re not alone.”

The air between them thickened, words unspoken, questions unanswered. She hated how much she wanted to believe him. Because if she believed him, it meant letting go of every wall she’d built.
It meant letting someone stay. And that had never ended well.

“I don’t… do this,” she said quietly. “I don’t let people in.”

Miles didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. “I know.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “Then why are you still here?”

He held her gaze, steady and soft. “Because you let me stay.”

She blinked, and for a terrifying second, she thought she might cry.

So instead, she scoffed and looked away. “You’re impossible.”

Miles chuckled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.”

She huffed a laugh despite herself, wiping at her eyes before anything could fall.
“I’m still not throwing out your notes,” she muttered.

He smiled, not smug — just warm. “Good. I’ve got more where those came from.”

Their eyes met, and something in her chest twisted.

She looked away first.

“Goodnight, Miles,” she said, voice small.

“Night, Celina.”

She stood, blanket trailing behind her like a shield. Her heart thudded in her chest, too fast, too loud. She didn’t look back as she walked down the hall. Miles watched her go, the quiet settling around him like a second skin.

He wanted to follow.

Wanted to ask what she was thinking.

But he stayed put.

Because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t push.

Not tonight.

He leaned back against the couch, letting the silence wrap around him. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut.

He stared at the space she’d just left — the shape of her still warm in the cushions, the blanket trailing like an echo.
And he whispered into the room, barely a sound:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Even if she wasn’t ready to hear it.

He let out a slow breath and reached for a sticky note.

“Sleep well. You’re not alone. — M.”

His handwriting was a little messier than usual, like his hands were too full of feeling to stay steady. He stuck it to her door — careful, quiet, like the words themselves might wake her.

Then he stepped back. Turned off the light. And let the darkness wrap around him,
soft and steady,

like hope whispered through a wall.

Celina found the note in the morning. It was stuck to her door, a little crooked, like it hadn’t wanted to stay but hadn’t wanted to fall either. She plucked it off gently, fingertips brushing the paper like it might bruise.

“Sleep well. You’re not alone. — M.”

Her chest tightened.

There it was again — that feeling she couldn’t name, soft and sharp all at once.

She stared at the handwriting until the letters blurred. Then she folded the note slowly, deliberately, like it meant something sacred. Slid it into the back of her notebook, right alongside all the others. She didn’t know when she’d started needing them.

Needing him.

But somewhere between the soup and the lullabies, between the sticky notes and the silences,
she had. And the scariest part?

She didn’t want to stop.

She stood in the doorway, staring at the couch where he’d slept the night before.

The blanket was still folded. The pillow still held the faint shape of his head.

It felt empty without him there.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be okay with needing someone.

Didn’t know how to let herself want someone and not run the other way.

But maybe she didn’t have to figure it out today. Maybe, for now, it was enough that he’d shown up. That he hadn’t asked for anything.

That he’d stayed.

And that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: You’re Always Here

Celina padded into the kitchen with sleep still clinging to her eyes, one sock on and the other forgotten somewhere near the edge of her bed. Her hoodie hung off one shoulder, and her hair was a half-hearted bun at best — but she didn’t care. Not this morning.

The apartment was still. The early kind of quiet, where the city hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from above them, like the building itself was stretching into the day.

There was already a mug of coffee on the counter.

Not hers. But for her.

Still hot.

Still waiting.

She blinked at it, brow furrowing slightly. It wasn’t the gesture that got her — it was how expected it had started to feel. Like part of the routine. Like she didn’t have to ask anymore.

She wrapped her hands around the cup, holding it close, the warmth seeping into her fingers before it ever hit her chest.

A folded dish towel sat next to the sink — her laundry, she realized distantly. Folded. Her hoodie, even, was missing the wrinkle it usually had down the front.
Someone had taken the time. Again.
And it wasn’t her.

Miles’ door was cracked. She could hear the muffled sounds of his Spotify Discover Weekly through the wall — something with soft drums and sad lyrics, of course. He always said he didn’t read into the vibe of his playlist, but she didn’t believe him.

She didn’t peek in.

But she didn’t walk away either.

Instead, she stood there for a second longer, bare toes curling against the tile, the mug warm in her hands like a secret. A reminder. A ritual. Something real and quiet and his.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Lucy 👑: Miles made you coffee again didn’t he. you two act more married than me and tim and we’ve actually kissed

Celina rolled her eyes and replied only with a middle finger emoji — but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
Technically, he already had moved in. That wasn’t the point.

She looked back toward his door. Still cracked. Still humming.

She stood there, holding that cup of coffee like it was proof of something she couldn’t say out loud.

That he was here.

That he always was.

By noon, Celina was back at her desk, typing up case notes like she hadn’t almost cried over a mug this morning.

The coffee had worn off. The ache in her chest hadn’t.

Lucy dropped into the chair across from her without warning, balancing her cup with the reckless grace of someone who’d never spilled anything in her life. “So, we’re doing cozy now?”

Celina didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” Lucy said, already grinning. She gestured toward Celina’s hoodie — the navy one, slightly oversized, with a faint bleach mark on the cuff. “Miles’ hoodie again?”

“It’s soft.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Celina made a face but didn’t rise to the bait. Lucy sipped her coffee, calm as ever, gaze annoyingly perceptive.

Then, quieter: “You okay?”

Celina’s fingers hovered over the keys, case notes blurring slightly on the screen. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lucy tilted her head. “You let him in, you know.”

Celina blinked. “What?”

“You let him in.” Lucy’s voice had shifted — less teasing, more careful. “I just hope you don’t figure that out too late.”

Celina opened her mouth to respond — to deny it, to push, to deflect — but didn’t get the chance.

Sergeant Grey’s voice cut through the bullpen like a well-timed plot twist: “Chen. Juarez. You’re riding backup tonight — joint patrol until 0200.”

Celina looked up sharply. “Sir—”

“Not a request,” Grey added without pause, already halfway through another folder. Then, with the ghost of a knowing look: “You two work well in pairs.”

Tim coughed into his coffee near the whiteboard like he was choking back a laugh. Lucy smiled into her cup. Celina stared at both of them like they were in on some private joke.

And across the room, Miles stood at his own desk, leaned slightly against the edge like he hadn’t heard something strange at all. His eyes flicked to hers. No surprise. No hesitation.

Just a small nod.

Like it was normal.

Like this was easy.

Like she wasn’t actively short-circuiting in real time.

And somehow…

That might’ve been worse.

The joint shift was quiet.

Not in a bad way — no tension, no awkwardness — just... quiet.

They drove the usual routes, checked the usual alleys, cleared the usual calls. No drama. No high-speed chases. Just the sound of tires humming under the streetlights and the occasional crackle of dispatch over the radio.

Celina tapped her fingers against the passenger door. It was something she did when she was thinking — or when she was pretending she wasn’t.

Miles didn’t say anything.

A song came on the radio. One of those mellow indie tracks he usually skipped. This time, he let it play. The lyrics drifted in the background — soft piano, slow harmonies, something about staying even when it’s hard.

Celina shifted in her seat.

“You okay?” he asked finally, voice low.

She nodded once. “Just tired.”

He gave a small hum in reply. Nothing else.

But when she reached for the coffee in the console and her fingers brushed his, neither of them moved for a second too long.

She pulled her hand back first.

The silence after wasn’t heavy. Just full.

The precinct shift was long. Uneventful. Cold. The kind of night where the radio barely crackled and even the streetlights looked tired. Celina kept her gaze on the road most of the time, and Miles didn’t push. They didn’t talk much in the car.

But when they got home, everything felt… quieter.

Stiller.

Celina flipped the light switch by instinct.

Nothing.

She frowned, tried another.

Still nothing.

“I think we blew a fuse,” she muttered, already stepping out of her boots.

Miles appeared behind her, dropping his keys on the counter. “Great. Add it to the list of things this place is trying to kill us with.”

“I swear if one more thing breaks—”

“I’ll sue the landlord for emotional damage,” he offered.

She snorted. “Please. We’d lose.”

He started toward the hall closet. “I’ll grab the—”

“It’s already out,” she called, cutting him off.

The old camping lantern sat on the coffee table, right where she’d left it after their last attempt at reorganizing the storage bins. She clicked it on, the low yellow light flickering to life and casting long shadows across the living room. They sat with it between them.

No TV.

No hum of the fridge.

No Lucy yelling across the bullpen or Tim’s low drawl giving orders through the comms.

Just them.

Celina pulled her knees up beneath her, wrapping Miles’ hoodie tighter around her body. The cuffs covered her hands. Her fingers idly traced the rim of her now-cold coffee mug — the same one from this morning.

There was a chip in the ceramic near the base. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Miles didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t try to fill the space with easy words or force her to laugh.

He just stayed.

He leaned back against the opposite cushion, legs stretched out, fingers tapping once against the side of the lantern. She could feel his presence like gravity — steady, warm, close enough to reach.

She didn’t look at him. But she could feel his gaze flick to her. Once. Then again.

And for the first time all night, she let herself breathe.

Because sometimes silence wasn’t heavy.

Sometimes, it was just… safe.

The power outage turned the apartment into a cave of warmth and flickering shadows.

They sat on opposite sides of the couch, the lantern dim between them, their outlines soft and golden. No hum from the fridge. No distant sirens. Just quiet.

Celina had tucked her legs under herself, blanket wrapped tight around her knees. Her hair had fallen out of its bun somewhere between the door and the couch, and now it hung loose over her shoulder.

Miles leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the top of the couch. Not close enough to touch her. But not far, either.

She cleared her throat. “Have you ever lived alone?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I mean, before this. Roommates, partners, whatever.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Always had someone around.”

She nodded, eyes still on the lantern.

“I used to think I liked being alone,” she said, voice quieter now. “But maybe I just didn’t like anyone enough to stay.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t rush her.

Didn’t make it lighter than it was.

And maybe that’s why she kept going.

Somewhere between the silence and the stillness, between the soft buzz of the lantern and the steady hush of the world outside their windows, Celina spoke.

“I never have to ask.”

Miles looked over.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Kept hers trained on the faint flicker of the lantern between them, the way the light caught on his wrist, the fabric of the hoodie she was still wearing.

“You’re just… here,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “You always are.”

His brow furrowed just slightly. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”

She shook her head, too quickly. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

The silence thickened for a second. Then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes catching the edge of hers in the glow.

“What did you mean, then?”

She exhaled, slow and careful, like the words would come out wrong if she rushed them.

“I think…” she hesitated. “I’m just not used to that. Someone who shows up. Even when it’s nothing big. Even when I don’t say anything.”

Her thumb rubbed over the chipped rim of the mug in her lap.

Miles tilted his head, just slightly. The corners of his mouth curved. “I can leave a mess next time, if it helps.”

She looked at him then — just briefly — and her lips twitched into a half-smile.

“You’re annoying.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head now, smug as ever. “You’re welcome.”

She rolled her eyes and set the mug on the table.

But she didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

They sat closer than usual tonight.

The couch wasn’t big — but it wasn’t that small either. Usually, there was a cushion’s worth of space between them. Tonight, there wasn’t. Not really.

There was space.

But Celina didn’t take it.

At first, it was subtle. Her knees turned in his direction instead of folded up like usual. Her arm rested along the cushion beside him instead of curled close to her chest. She didn’t seem to notice. But Miles did. And when she let herself lean — just barely — toward him, her shoulder brushing his… he noticed that too.

She didn’t move back.

She could have. The contact wasn’t an accident. Not really. And when she let herself stay there, shoulder against shoulder, hoodie sleeve brushing his, something shifted in the air. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

The glow from the lantern softened the room around them, stretching long shadows along the walls. It felt like they were in a snow globe. Like if they breathed too hard, it would all shatter.

Miles flexed his hand once, then stilled it. His knee was touching hers now. Just barely.

He couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt like this.

Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just… charged. Waiting.

And then, as if her body decided before her mind did, Celina’s head dropped onto his shoulder.

Not forcefully. Not dramatically. Just slow. Careful. Like a question. Like she was bracing for him to flinch or shift away.

He didn’t.

He didn’t move at all.

His heart was pounding — embarrassingly so — but he stayed still. Stayed solid.

Let her rest there. And maybe, just maybe, let himself feel the way his chest tightened. Let himself realize how much he liked the weight of her leaning on him. The way her breathing steadied beside his.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking down to the curve of her cheek.

She didn’t look tired anymore.

She looked safe.

The couch creaked softly beneath them.

Celina shifted again, tugging the blanket higher. Her legs were curled against the cushions now, knees just brushing his thigh. The hoodie — his hoodie — swallowed her whole.

Miles didn’t move.

Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to fight it — the pull of exhaustion, the quiet, the comfort. Then her hand dropped to the couch between them, just barely grazing his.

She didn’t pull back.

Neither did he.

The lantern buzzed once and flickered, casting shadows across the floor. It was so quiet he could hear her breathing. Slow. Steady. She blinked once. Then again.
And then, like gravity won, her head dipped sideways — gently, carefully — until it landed against his shoulder.

Miles froze.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he did.

More than he should.

But he stayed still. Let her lean. Let the silence wrap around them.

She let out a soft breath — almost a sigh. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the crown of hers resting against him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want the moment to end.

She fell asleep like that.

Right there — curled up against his side, head tucked beneath his jaw like it belonged there.

At first, Miles didn’t move because he didn’t want to wake her. Then he didn’t move because he couldn’t.

His shoulder had gone a little numb, but the rest of him was on high alert — locked in place by the weight of her, the smell of her shampoo, the way her fingers had drifted lower until they brushed against his thigh and stayed there, unconsciously.

The kind of touch that wasn’t planned. The kind you remember anyway.

She mumbled something in her sleep — low and barely formed. It sounded like his name.

Miles closed his eyes for a second. Just one.

This didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

She was tired. The lights were out. The power was out. The universe was playing tricks on him, giving him softness he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t keep. Still, he stayed. He let his hand rest on the back of the couch, fingers curling slightly behind her shoulders. Not touching her — not quite. But there.

Close enough that it felt like something.

He told himself not to read into it.

Told himself she’d wake up, stretch, laugh it off.

And he’d let her. He always did.

But still — he stayed.

He didn’t look at the clock. Didn’t reach for his phone. Didn’t shift, even as his whole body protested.

Because the truth was:

He liked the silence when she was in it. He liked the weight of her trust.

And he knew — deep down, in the way you know things without saying them — that this moment was something they’d both pretend hadn’t happened.

Later, she’d probably avoid his eyes.

Later, he’d probably crack a joke and change the subject.

But for now —

She was asleep. And he was staying.

Like always.

Across town, the porch light buzzed softly against the evening chill. The city stretched out quiet below them — not asleep, but settled. Lucy leaned against the railing of Tim’s porch, mug in hand, eyes distant.

“She’s changing,” she said quietly.

Tim didn’t look at her. Just took a sip of his coffee, the kind she always said tasted like motor oil. “Yeah.”

Lucy’s eyes didn’t leave the skyline. “Because of him.”

That got his attention. Tim glanced over, not surprised — just thoughtful.

“He’s solid,” Tim said simply.

“She’s not good at letting people in.”

“Neither are you,” he said, voice lower now.

Lucy didn’t argue.

She stared into her mug, watching the steam rise slow into the night air. She blew on it absently, lips twitching into something almost-smile, almost-sad.

“I just hope she figures it out before it’s too late.”

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifted slightly, stepping in just a little closer, shoulder brushing hers.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

And Lucy didn’t move away.

When Celina woke up, the lantern was off.

The apartment was still — the kind of still that made you forget sound existed. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of old floorboards reminded her the world hadn’t stopped.

Miles was gone.

His door closed. Lights off. No footsteps.

But it didn’t feel empty.

Her body ached from the angle she’d fallen asleep in, neck stiff, blanket bunched awkwardly around her. She blinked slowly, trying to remember when exactly she’d drifted off — if she’d said anything. If she’d moved.

The warmth from where he’d been was gone. But something of it lingered.

She stood, the blanket trailing behind her like a forgotten thought. Her gaze flicked toward the counter. No new note. No fresh coffee this time. She didn’t blame him — it was early. Or maybe late. She didn’t check. On instinct, she crossed the kitchen and opened the drawer by the fridge.

The sticky notes were still there — tucked beside the pens and mismatched batteries, in the spot he always left them.

She stared at them for a long second.

Then pulled one free.

The pen felt too heavy in her hand. The silence too loud. She started to write something.

Stopped.

Tore the note in half.

Started again.

This time, she didn’t overthink it. Didn’t try to make it sound like a joke. Didn’t try to hide behind sarcasm or smirks or safety.

Thanks for always being here.

That’s all it said.

She didn’t sign it.

Just stuck it to the coffee pot — the same one he used every morning — and walked away before she could change her mind.

He found it the next morning — half-asleep, still rubbing his eyes, expecting just coffee.

The apartment was quiet. Early golden light slanted through the kitchen window, casting streaks across the countertop. He reached for the coffee pot out of habit, already planning to text Celina if she forgot to refill the water again.

And then he saw it.

The note.

A sticky square of yellow pressed flat against the glass. Her handwriting.

Careful. Small. Slanted slightly to the left like she’d rewritten it more than once.

Thanks for always being here.

That’s all it said.

No signature. No joke. No sarcasm.

Just that.

Miles stood there for a second too long, fingers hovering above the counter like touching it might make it disappear. He smiled to himself — slow, involuntary. The kind that started in his chest and spread outward, soft and dangerous

Then, without a word, he peeled the note from the pot. Folded it once. Then again. Slid it into his wallet, right behind his driver’s license — like it belonged there. Like it was proof of something real.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Because maybe — just maybe — she was starting to stay, too.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: One Sock on the Couch

One sock.

Miles’ sock.

Gray, with a faded stripe near the ankle and just enough stretch in the fabric to say it had been through things. It was balled up and abandoned on the edge of the couch like it lived there now.

Like he did.

Celina stared at it for a full minute before saying anything. Not that there was anyone to say it to.

She picked it up between two fingers like it might be radioactive.

“Gross,” she muttered — like that could explain the way her chest tugged just a little.

It wasn’t the sock.

It was what it meant.

Miles had gotten comfortable. Sloppy, even. Leaving socks out, leaving cabinet doors cracked open, leaving his toothbrush on the sink like he forgot it wasn’t just his bathroom.

He was starting to live here.

Not just crash here.

Not just take up space on the lease.

And somehow… that didn’t feel bad.

Just dangerous.

She stared at it for another second. Then dropped it on the back of the couch like it wasn’t still echoing in her chest.

There were now three mugs in the sink.

One was hers.

The other two? Miles’.

She recognized them easily — the blue one with the chip on the rim, and the obnoxious thrift store mug with a little cartoon dinosaur wearing sunglasses. He’d brought it home one day, held it up like a trophy, and declared it “vibe-accurate.”

She told him it was cursed.

He used it every day after that.

Now it sat in the sink, empty, tilted at a dramatic angle like it had made some sort of point and was now resting.

She leaned on the counter and stared at it.

Miles wasn’t even home right now. And still, his stuff was everywhere.

A hoodie draped over the back of the chair, sleeves twisted like it had been shrugged off in a hurry. His keys on the hallway table, half-covering the mail she still hadn’t sorted. A pair of his socks — different from the one she found earlier — balled together and barely tucked behind the arm of the couch.

And then there was the sticky note.

Still clinging to the fridge like it belonged there, even though the paper was curling at the edges now. The same one he’d written a few days ago in Sharpie:

Buy more oranges. You’re scurvy-adjacent. — M.

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her. She smiled. Small and involuntary.

And that —

That was the problem.

Not the socks. Not the mugs. Not the cartoon dinosaur or the oranges or the hoodie that smelled like his cologne.

The problem was that it all felt… normal.

The problem was that she didn’t want to throw any of it away.

She was lying on her side when he came in — face half-buried in a throw pillow, hair a disaster, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands.

Miles stopped in the doorway and blinked at her. “You okay?”

“Long shift,” she mumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

He didn’t press.

Just disappeared for a minute.

She didn’t move. Just listened — the soft creak of the hallway floorboards, the low sound of the linen closet door opening, the rustle of something being pulled down from the shelf.

He came back with her favorite blanket.

The one with the worn edges and the fading stars.

The one she never admitted was her favorite — but somehow, he’d figured it out anyway. Without saying anything, he draped it over her legs — gentle, careful — like he did it all the time.

She sighed into the pillow. “You’re getting too good at that.”

“At what?”

“Reading me.”

He grinned, easy and a little smug. “I am a detective.”

She grabbed the throw pillow and chucked it at him. He caught it without flinching.

And didn’t leave the room.

Didn’t say he had things to do.

Didn’t walk away like he had somewhere else to be.

Just sat down on the edge of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t need to.

He stayed anyway.

Later that day, they ended up back at the precinct — different cases, same lunchroom.

Celina sat on the far bench, poking half-heartedly at a sandwich she didn’t really want. The bread was too dry, the lettuce too limp, and her thoughts too loud.

Across the room, Miles was at war with the vending machine. He tapped it once. Then twice. Gave it a look like he was considering arresting it for obstruction.

Behind them, the door creaked open.

Sergeant Grey stepped in, grabbed a manila folder from the breakroom shelf, then paused. Looked between them. One eyebrow arched, just slightly.

“You two always this synced up now?” he asked, tone neutral — but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Celina’s eyes flicked up for a second, then immediately dropped to her sandwich.

Miles didn’t even blink. “Habit.”

Grey stared at him for a beat.

Then nodded, amused. “Right.”

He walked out without another word, boots heavy on the tile.

The vending machine finally thunked and gave up a granola bar.

Miles caught it one-handed and didn’t look over.

Celina sat very, very still.

“Habit,” she repeated under her breath, cheeks warm.

Like that explained anything.

Like that made it okay.

She poked at her sandwich again, but she was definitely not hungry anymore.

Back at the apartment that night, Miles had a shift.

Celina didn’t.

For the first time in days, she was alone. No boots in the hallway. No Spotify playlist bleeding through the bathroom wall. No stupid dinosaur mug on the counter.

At first, it felt like a gift — silence, space, the remote all to herself. She curled up in her usual corner of the couch, blanket half on, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and queued up something she didn’t have to think about.

She stretched out. Took up the whole couch. Even ordered takeout without checking what he wanted first.

Freedom.

Except—

Two hours in, she caught herself glancing at the door every few minutes.
Just out of habit.

Three hours in, she found herself picking up her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for longer than it should’ve.
Then she typed:

u said u’d pick up oat milk?

She didn’t need it. Not really. There was still half a carton in the fridge.

But she watched the message sit there anyway.

Read. Typing…

Nothing.

She didn’t follow it up. Didn’t send a “never mind.”

She just… waited.

Not for the milk.

Not really.

For him.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the silence.

Maybe it was how loud the apartment felt without him in it.

It was after midnight when he came in.

Celina had already turned off the TV. The apartment lights were dim — not out, but soft, like she hadn’t fully decided whether she wanted to sleep or just sit in her feelings a little longer.

She didn’t get up. Just listened.

The front door opened. Closed.

Keys dropped into the bowl by the entryway.

Boots off. Soft footfalls.

Then the quiet clink of the fridge opening.

She stayed on the couch, pretending to be half-asleep.

A few minutes later, she heard a soft shuffle near the kitchen — and then the fridge opened again. Something was placed on the shelf. No words. No commentary.

She waited until he was in the shower before getting up.

There, on the top shelf of the fridge, was a fresh carton of oat milk.

Next to it — taped to the lid with a neon pink sticky note from her own stash — was his handwriting.

“Don’t know what kind. Hope this is the dramatic kind you like. — M.”

She stared at it for a long time.

Smiled. Then almost cried.

She put the milk in the door like it didn’t matter.

But she kept the note.

She found the note again the next morning.

Still taped to the carton. Still stupid. Still annoyingly charming in his handwriting that always slanted down like he was rushing but still wanted to make it neat.

“Don’t know what kind. Hope this is the dramatic kind you like. — M.”

She stared at it for a while. Thought about letting it go.

Instead, she peeled it off, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer, and flipped it over.

Wrote in small, careful letters:

“It was. Thanks for remembering I’m dramatic.”

Then, after a pause, she added:

“Don’t forget your sock.”

She stuck it to the cabinet above the coffee mugs — his cabinet, technically. The one he always opened without thinking.

Then she walked away.

And she didn’t check if he saw it.

Didn’t peek around the corner.

Didn’t ask.

But she noticed, hours later, that the note was gone.

And the sock was, too.

Tim tossed the remote onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, a hand already reaching toward Lucy’s foot under the blanket.

She didn’t look up from her phone.

“Chen?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve reread that text three times.”

“It’s not a text.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

She flipped the screen toward him.

A photo of a sticky note. Celina’s handwriting.

It was. Thanks for remembering I’m dramatic. Don’t forget your sock.

Tim squinted. “That looks like something you’d write to me if I pissed you off and you were trying to be flirty about it.”

Lucy smiled. “Exactly.”

He blinked. “Wait — is that to Miles?”

She nodded, smug. “He left one first. About oat milk.”

Tim stared at her. “That’s practically a proposal in roommate language.”

“I know,” she said, tossing her phone to the side and curling up closer to him. “They’re such idiots.”

“They’re us,” Tim said.

She rolled her eyes. “No. We were emotionally stunted. They’re worse.”

Tim didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled her legs into his lap and adjusted the blanket like it was muscle memory.

“You’re gonna interfere, aren’t you,” he said.

“I’m not not gonna interfere.”

He grunted.

Lucy smiled into the silence.

Lucy caught her in the locker room the next morning — all quiet floors and fluorescent buzz.

“You look twitchy,” she said, casually pulling her hair into a ponytail like she hadn’t just launched a grenade.

Celina scowled at her reflection in the mirror. “Thanks.”

Lucy leaned against the locker beside hers, arms crossed, tone entirely too casual. “Miss him?”

“What? No.” Celina slammed the door to her locker with unnecessary force. “I just—he left a sock on the couch again.”

“Scandalous.”

Celina spun to face her. “Shut up.”

Lucy didn’t flinch. Just smiled, sharp and knowing.

And the worst part?

Celina did miss him.

She hadn’t realized it until Lucy said it out loud, like a secret someone else found before she could bury it.

But instead of answering, she yanked her hoodie over her head and walked out.

Lucy let her go.

Didn’t press.

Just watched the door swing closed. And behind Celina’s ribcage, tucked somewhere under her heartbeat and pride, the tiny truth sat waiting.

With teeth.

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Thursday.

Celina was reviewing body cam footage at her desk, headphones in, barely registering anything. She hadn’t seen Miles since morning briefing — not that she was checking. She wasn’t. A shadow passed across her screen.

Tim Bradford.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there with a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other.

She tugged one earbud out. “What?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he said, calm as ever.

Celina blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Sure you do.”

She sat back in her chair, arms crossing defensively. “Is this about Lucy? Did she tell you to say something?”

“Nope.” Tim sipped his coffee. “Didn’t need her to.”

Celina opened her mouth. Closed it. “Whatever you think is happening—”

He held up a hand. “Not my business.”

She stared.

“But,” he added, “if someone started leaving notes and oat milk in my fridge, I might consider unpacking what that means.”

Celina scoffed. “We live together. It’s a shared fridge.”

Tim nodded slowly, like he was giving her space to believe her own lie. “Right.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “Just… don’t miss the thing because you’re too scared to look at it.”

Celina didn’t respond.

He walked off, not waiting for one.

And for the rest of the shift, her stomach wouldn’t settle.

Miles came back late.

Celina was still awake — curled on the couch with a blanket half over her legs and the TV remote untouched beside her — but pretending she wasn’t waiting.

She looked up as the door opened. He looked tired. Not wrecked, just… worn in that quiet, after-midnight way. Hair a little flat. Shirt slightly rumpled. Keys tossed into the bowl without looking.

“You forgot your sock,” she said casually, nodding toward the armrest.

It sat there — clean now, folded once, perfectly balanced like an offering. She’d washed it. Left it out like a dare.

He blinked at it, then smiled faintly. “I always leave something behind.”

“Obviously.”

He picked it up and tossed it in the laundry basket by the hallway.

Didn’t break eye contact.

Didn’t move toward his room yet.

“So,” he said, with a crooked little half-smile, “you’ll have to keep letting me back in.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

Just looked at him like the weight of that sentence had landed somewhere she wasn’t ready to admit existed.

And she didn’t say no.

Didn’t laugh it off.

Didn’t look away.

She didn’t need to.

Celina couldn’t sleep.

She wasn’t tossing or turning — just… awake. Mind humming. Nerves steady but frayed, like they were waiting for something.

She got up quietly. Didn’t bother with the lights. Padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. The oat milk was still there — dramatic and unopened.

She shut the door, grabbed a glass of water, and tugged on the hoodie hanging off the back of a chair.
Didn’t think about which one it was until she was already wearing it.

His. Of course.

She stood in the glow of the fridge light for a moment too long.

Then she heard the floor creak behind her.

Miles.

Hair messy. Shirt rumpled. Eyes still adjusting to the dark.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stared for a second — at the hoodie, at her, at the time of night.

“Oh,” she said, swallowing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to steal it.”

He shook his head once. “You didn’t.”

They stood like that for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded again.

She thought he might leave it there. Might walk away. But instead, he stepped past her, grabbed a banana from the counter like it was any other night, and said—

“It looks better on you, anyway.”

Then walked off, biting into it like he hadn’t just rearranged her entire ribcage.

The next night, they were back on the couch.

No TV this time — just background noise from the city and the occasional creak of the floor above them. They weren’t even pretending to watch anything.

Celina was curled into her corner. Miles sat next to her, one leg stretched out, fingers absently flipping through a half-folded newspaper someone had abandoned.

She should’ve said something.

About the hoodie.

About the note.

About how easy it was to keep pretending until it suddenly wasn’t.

“About the oat milk—” she started.

He looked over, alert in that quiet way of his. “Yeah?”

She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. She redirected.

“I just… liked the note. That’s all.”

He tilted his head, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

And then neither of them said anything for a long time.

But their knees stayed pressed together.

And that —

That said enough.

Later that night, the apartment was quiet again. Almost too quiet.

Celina moved through the hallway barefoot, half-asleep but restless. No TV. No background noise. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old floorboards.

She passed by his door.

The light was still on.

Music playing low — something acoustic, soft, the kind of song you only listen to when you’re thinking too much and pretending you’re not.

She hovered there for a second.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t speak.

Instead, she reached out slowly — fingers ghosting toward the edge of the doorframe. Not to open it. Not to make her presence known. Just to feel something. Something that proved he was still here. Still close. Still... his.

Inside, she could hear him shifting. Maybe reading. Maybe lying awake too.

He didn’t see her.

But still, she whispered — soft and mostly to herself:

“You’re everywhere.”

And for once, she didn’t sound annoyed. Didn’t sound sarcastic or tired or ready to fight it.

Just scared.

Because he was.

Everywhere.

In her kitchen. In her couch cushions. In her laundry. Her coffee mugs. Her playlists. Her patterns. Her habits. Her head.

And she didn’t know who she was without that anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Silence After the Laughter 

Celina was sprawled across the couch like gravity had finally won, one leg thrown over the armrest, her phone barely balanced in her hand. The light from the screen flickered soft across her face, the only thing cutting through the early evening dim. Outside, the city buzzed and blinked like nothing had changed — but in here, it felt suspended.

The door creaked open.

Miles stepped inside, jacket dusted with rain and two paper bags in hand, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.

“They were closing early,” he said, toeing off his boots. “I might’ve promised we’d make the food worth it.”

Celina didn’t look up right away. Just hummed. “We?”

“I mean, I can eat both orders if you’re gonna be weird about it—”

She sat up just enough to snatch the top bag from his hand before he could finish, expression neutral except for the tiniest twitch of a smirk. “You talk too much.”

He grinned, unabashed.

And for just a second — just one — she let her eyes linger. Not on the food, not on the bags, but on him. The raindrops still clinging to his hair, the little crease by his eye that only showed up when he smiled like that. Like it was easy. Like it was for her.

She looked away fast. Back to the takeout. Back to safe.

But her heart had already betrayed her — rising like it recognized something.

She just wasn’t ready to name it yet.

They ate on the floor.

No table, no TV, no distractions — just two cartons of lukewarm stir-fry balanced on a worn coffee table, the flicker of candlelight from a half-burned jar on the windowsill casting everything in soft gold. The power hadn’t come back yet. Neither of them mentioned it.

Miles sat cross-legged, chopsticks in hand, squinting like he was performing surgery. And failing. Celina watched as he dropped a piece of tofu for the third time in five minutes. It bounced off the edge of the box and landed in his lap.

“Seriously?” she asked, laughing as she leaned over to grab a napkin. “You’re a disgrace.”

“It’s strategic,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’m lowering your expectations so you’ll be more impressed later.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Bold of you to assume I had expectations.”

He stuck out his tongue, shameless. Childish. But the grin that followed was anything but — that soft, crinkly-eyed kind he saved for moments like this. The ones that didn’t mean anything.

Except, they did.

She burst into another laugh — loud, sharp, real. The kind that cracked something open before she could stop it. It filled the apartment for a moment, bounced off the walls like it belonged there.

And then it lingered. She clapped a hand over her mouth too late.

Because the moment after the laugh felt too quiet. Like someone had turned the volume down and she could suddenly hear her own heartbeat in her throat.

Miles looked over at her — not grinning now, not teasing. Just… watching. Like he’d heard it too.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

Didn’t dare.

Because suddenly the space between them didn’t feel like a floor.

It felt like a line.

And she wasn’t sure which side she was on anymore.

It wasn’t a big moment.

No lightning bolt. No swell of music. No grand declaration like in the movies.

Just her looking at him. Him looking back.

And for the first time, neither of them looked away.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Something had shifted — not loudly, but definitively. Like the floor had tilted a few degrees beneath them and neither was sure whether to lean into it or try to pretend it was still level.

The laughter had faded, but something else was there now — quiet, fragile, unfinished.

It buzzed beneath her skin.

Celina’s thumb brushed the edge of the takeout container, but her eyes didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because his were still locked on hers, soft and a little stunned, like he hadn’t meant to end up here either.

Her heart thudded once — too hard, too loud.

Miles opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

The moment stretched. Tightened. She blinked — and the spell cracked just slightly, like glass held too long in a trembling hand.

Still, he didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

But whatever it was — whatever had almost happened — hung in the air like the last note of a song no one was brave enough to sing.

The air changed.

Just like that.

They cleaned up in quiet.

The storm rolled in slow.

At first, just a distant rumble beyond the apartment walls — the kind you could almost ignore if you tried hard enough. Celina didn’t.

She stood by the window after they cleaned up, arms crossed, eyes tracing the glint of water running down the glass like it might spell something out. Miles was still in the kitchen, the clink of dishes soft behind her.

Thunder cracked, low and close this time. She flinched.

“Didn’t peg you for the thunder-jumpy type,” Miles said gently as he came to stand behind her.

“I’m not,” she muttered. “Just… caught off guard.”

“Mmhm,” he said. Not buying it, but not pushing either.

Lightning flashed, bright and uninvited. Her reflection flickered in the window.

A beat passed. Then two.

“Wait here,” he said, already walking toward his room.

She blinked. “What—”

But he was already back, holding his phone and a little portable speaker. The kind she forgot he even owned.

“You don’t like the quiet,” he said. “Not when it’s like this.”

He was right. And it annoyed her more than she wanted to admit.

He pulled up a playlist. Something soft. Familiar. Safe.

Then, without ceremony, he offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Come on. It’ll distract you. Plus, I’ve been told I have moves.”

She raised an eyebrow. “By who?”

“Myself. Just now.”

And maybe it was the rain, or the way the lights flickered low, or the fact that he was smiling at her like this wasn’t weird — like it could be simple — but she took his hand.

Carefully. Slowly.

They swayed, barely moving. Just enough to call it dancing. His hand found the small of her back. Hers hovered near his shoulder, not quite resting.

The music did most of the talking.

Somewhere between verses, he started singing along — softly, like he didn’t mean for her to hear.

She did.

“I’d stand in the storm if it meant I could keep you warm…”

Celina froze.

He kept going, not noticing — or pretending not to.

“Even the silence feels softer with you in the room…”

And that was it.

That was the moment she stopped pretending this wasn’t something.

That she wasn’t already halfway gone.

She leaned in slowly, head against his shoulder. His arms adjusted around her like it was muscle memory.

The storm cracked again. But it couldn’t touch her.

Not here.

Not with him.

And it wrecked her.

Because it wasn’t about the voice — it was the comfort in it. The way he made the room feel smaller, safer. Like she didn’t have to brace for something bad just because the thunder cracked again.

“Why do you always do that?” she asked, voice barely there.

“Do what?”

“Make things easier.”

He looked at her, really looked, like the question deserved more than a joke.

“Because you let me.”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So instead, she let herself lean in. Just slightly.

Head resting against his shoulder. Eyes closed.

The storm kept going.

But for a while, it felt like it couldn’t touch her.

Back at the precinct, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in their usual too-bright, too-awake glare.

Lucy passed Nolan in the hallway on her way back from debrief, file in one hand, coffee in the other. She didn’t slow down — just glanced at him sidelong and said, almost idly,

“You ever watch people fall in love in real time?”

Nolan blinked. “Uh. Can’t say I have. Is that… a thing people do?”

Lucy didn’t answer right away. Just sipped her coffee and shrugged like she hadn’t just dropped a conversation bomb.

She stopped by the open blinds near the bullpen, half-concealed by the glass.

Her eyes flicked toward the desk where Celina sat — posture too straight, eyes locked a little too hard on the case file in front of her like it was hiding state secrets. She tapped her pen against the table, jaw tight, foot bouncing under the desk.

Across the room, Miles leaned against the edge of a filing cabinet, half-listening to whatever Tim was telling him. But his eyes kept drifting.

Just a glance. Then another.

Every thirty seconds, like clockwork.

Nolan followed her gaze. Watched for maybe five seconds before realization hit.

“Ah,” he said, slow. “Yeah, okay. That tracks.”

Lucy smirked, the corner of her mouth tilting up like she knew it would click eventually.

“Took you long enough.”

“You think they know?”

She hummed. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“They’re detectives,” Nolan said.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. And yet.”

He snorted.

“Call it rookie intuition,” she added, then took another sip and walked off — like she hadn’t just narrated the quietest love story in the room.

It was supposed to be normal.

Just the couch. Just them. Like always.

Celina lay across the cushions, head resting lightly in Miles’ lap. He barely blinked anymore when she did that. It had become a habit — like the coffee, like the notes, like the way she always left her phone on his charger.

His fingers hovered near her temple, absently playing with a loose strand of hair. The TV was on, low and forgettable. Background noise for something that was starting to feel like a routine neither of them wanted to name.

She shifted — just a little — trying to get more comfortable, curling slightly toward him.

He looked down. She looked up.

Too close.

Her hand rested against his thigh. His eyes flicked to it, then back to her mouth — and before either of them could stop it, before logic or Rodge or literally anything could pull them apart—

She moved.

Or maybe he did.

Either way, their mouths met.

Not clumsy. Not rushed. Just… unplanned. Slow. Searching. It wasn’t a peck.

It wasn’t nothing.

It lasted longer than it should’ve — just enough for her fingers to tighten slightly on his jeans, just enough for him to breathe out against her cheek like he didn’t know he’d been holding it.

Then it broke.

Sharp. Clean. Like a snapped wire.

Celina shot upright, nearly knocking knees.

They stared at each other.

Her lips parted like she was going to say something — a joke, a denial, a sorry — but nothing came.

Miles opened his mouth too.

Still, silence won.

She stood too quickly, brushing nonexistent lint off her sweater. “I—I’m gonna go fold laundry,” she said, voice too even to be real.

He just nodded.

And when she disappeared into her room and shut the door behind her, Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and finally exhaled.

Because that hadn’t been an accident.

And they both knew it.

Miles didn’t move.

Not even after the door clicked shut behind her.

He sat there, spine tense, the air still electric around him like the ghost of the moment hadn’t quite left. His hand twitched once, like maybe he thought she’d come back. Like maybe she hadn’t just fled the room like it was on fire.

Because it had been.

He leaned back, pressed both palms to his face.

What the hell just happened?

But he knew. He knew exactly what happened.

He’d kissed her.

She’d kissed him.

It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. It had been slow. Too slow to call accidental. Too soft to call platonic. Too good to be something they could pretend didn’t matter.

He could still feel the shape of it — the breath she let out just before, the barely-there pressure of her hand against his leg, the way she didn’t pull away until they both realized what they’d done.

And God, her eyes after.

Like she’d just crossed a line she hadn’t meant to but didn’t regret either.

He sat forward again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Rodge.

Timing.

Her.

He shouldn’t have let it happen. Should’ve moved. Should’ve said something.

But he didn’t. Because he wanted it.

Because it felt like something they’d been circling for weeks. And now?

Now he was just sitting there, haunted by a kiss neither of them were going to talk about — knowing damn well it wouldn’t be the last.

Not if they kept getting this close.

Not if she kept looking at him like that.

Not if he couldn’t stop remembering how it felt.

Rewind. Replay. Repeat.

Every. Single. Time.

That night, they passed each other in the hallway like they always did.

The apartment lights were low. Her shadow caught on the wall before she did. His door opened just as she stepped out of the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like armor.

Miles stood there, still damp from his shower, hair curling at the ends. He didn’t say anything right away — just looked at her.

Just her.

Not like a roommate. Not like a friend.

Like someone he wasn’t supposed to kiss. Like someone he already had.

Celina met his gaze for half a second, then looked down at the floor. At her sock. At anything but him.

He broke the silence first. “Goodnight.”

Same tone. Same rhythm. Same words he’d said every night since they started this whole arrangement. But they weren’t the same anymore.

She nodded, lips pressed together. But her voice didn’t come.

Didn’t trust it to.

He lingered. Like he wanted to say more. Like maybe he would bring it up — the kiss, the way her breath had caught, the way her hand had stayed on his leg like she wasn’t ready to let go.

But she turned.

Didn’t run.

Just… walked away.

And he let her go. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t ask.

Even though both of them knew: that hallway would never feel quiet again.

She sat on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tight around her knees, the blanket from the couch still draped over her shoulders like a ghost she couldn’t shake.

The room was quiet. But not peaceful.

Too many thoughts. Too many echoes.

She could still hear his laugh — warm and familiar and all over her skin like a fingerprint.

She could still feel the way he looked at her.

Not just the kiss — no, that would’ve been easier to categorize. It was before that. The silence. The way his hand stayed on her shoulder like it meant something. Like she meant something.

Like maybe he saw all the parts of her she kept tucked away — and didn’t flinch.

She dug her fingers into her sleeves.

Because it wasn’t just the kiss. It was that she let it happen. Wanted it. Let herself want it. Let herself need someone. And Miles?

He was starting to feel like need.

Like home.

And that scared her more than anything else.

Because he wasn’t hers. Not officially. Not yet. And she wasn’t free. Not emotionally. Not completely.

And still — she didn’t pull away. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. She buried her face in her arms.

Didn’t cry.

But damn, it was close.

Miles hadn’t turned off the light.

He hadn’t changed.

He just sat there — on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had answers. Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, the weight pressing on his ribs would shift.

But it didn’t.

He replayed it again.

The kiss.

Quick. Unplanned. Accidental , if they wanted to lie to themselves. But it happened.

And for the briefest second — she didn’t pull away.

His hands had stilled the second her lips brushed his. The weight of her head still on his lap, the quiet between them still humming, the air still thick with whatever had been building for weeks. Months, maybe. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. It wasn’t even a real kiss, not really.

But it was enough to burn.

And she’d looked at him like— He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn’t even put it into words.

He didn’t mean to want this. Not like this. Not with her still technically with someone else. Not while she was still figuring herself out. Not when he wasn’t sure what she needed and didn’t want to be the one to ask for more before she was ready to give it.

But God, the way she looked at him.

The way her fingers stayed tangled in the hem of his sleeve for just a second too long. He ran a hand over his face.

Stared at the note she’d left him days ago — still stuck to the inside of his wallet.

“Thanks for always being here.”

He took it out. Held it between his fingers like it could explain anything. Like it could give him permission.

But the only thing it gave him was hope .

And that might’ve been worse.

He stood in the kitchen for longer than necessary.

The overhead light hummed low, barely illuminating the space. He didn’t flip it off. Didn’t move.

Just stared.

At the fridge.

At the sticky note still crooked in the top corner. Her handwriting — careful, small. Still there. Still untouched.

Thanks for always being here.

He hadn’t moved it. Not because he forgot. But because he couldn’t.

It felt like the only proof he hadn’t imagined this thing between them. That she saw it too. That maybe, just maybe, she’d already started falling long before that kiss ever happened.

But tonight?

No note from him.

No sarcasm.

No stupid comment about oat milk or oranges.

He didn’t want to clutter the silence with something that didn’t fit.
Not tonight. So he just stood there. Barefoot, hoodie rumpled, eyes tired. And whispered,

“Goodnight, Celina,” into the quiet.

Knowing she wouldn’t hear it. But hoping — praying — she felt it anyway.

Because the kiss may have happened by accident.

But this part?

The staying.

The hoping.

The aching ?

That was entirely on purpose.