He took one look at me—at the laptop, at my pale face—and his expression crumpled.
"Liv," he said quietly.
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I just turned the laptop toward him, the plastic scraping against the granite.
He walked closer, bringing the smell of winter air and sawdust with him. He leaned over the counter, eyes scanning the screen. I watched him take Lucia in—the bikini, the smile, the radiance.
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Jesus," he muttered.
"She's beautiful." My voice sounded thin and brittle. "Isn't she?"
"Olivia—"
"Two hours away," I interrupted, tapping the screen. "Northampton. That's where she's based."
Ben pulled out the barstool next to me and sat down heavily. The wood creaked under his weight. He didn't look at the screen anymore; instead, he looked at me, his eyes searching my face for cracks.
"You called her," he said.
"This morning." I closed the laptop. I couldn't stand to look at her perfection for another second. "I told her."
Ben exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The sound of his skin rasping against his stubble was loud in the quiet kitchen.
"How did she take it?"
"She cried, then hung up." I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. "She didn't know, Ben. She thought he was just... missing. She thought he’d ghosted her."
The kitchen went quiet again.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"No."
"Slept?"
"A few hours. After you put me to bed." I glanced at him. "Thank you. For that. And for cleaning up."
He winced, shifting his gaze to the counter. "You were running on empty, Liv. I didn't want you waking up to a mess."
"I'm still empty," I said, standing up. The restless energy was back, a buzzing static under my skin. "But now I have a face. I know what she looks like. I know where she lives." I grabbed my car keys from the hook by the fridge. The metal bit into my palm. "I'm going to find her."
Ben stood up fast, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. He stepped into my path, a solid wall of canvas and concern.
"No," he said. "You're not."
"Get out of my way, Ben."
"Look at you," he said gently. He gestured to my hand, which was trembling around the keys. "You’re vibrating. You haven't eaten in a week. You're not driving two hours on black ice to ambush a woman who is also grieving."
"I don't care about her grief!" I snapped. The anger finally broke through, hot and sharp. "I want answers! I want to know why he picked her!"
"I know," he said, stepping closer. He put his hands on my shoulders.
The contact was shocking. His hands were warm and heavy. They grounded me instantly, stopping the vibration in my bones.
"I know," he repeated, his voice dropping low. "And we'll get the answers you need. But not like this. Not with you crashing a car because you're too exhausted to see the road."
