"Good?" She stares. "Grath, these people don't play fair. You think Vance is going to just accept that you said no?"
"Don't care what he accepts."
She makes a frustrated noise. "You should. He's got money. Connections. He'll find a way to make your life hell until you leave."
"Let him try."
"You're impossible." But there's no real heat in it. She shakes her head, exhales slow. "Why did you do that?"
The answer's simple. "It's my home."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens. She looks away, down the street toward the café. "Yeah. Mine too."
We stand in silence. People trickle out of the hall, conversations loud and agitated. Someone claps me on the shoulder as they pass. An older woman nods approval.
Maris shivers. I shrug off my jacket without thinking and drape it over her shoulders.
She startles. Looks up at me. "I'm fine."
"You're cold."
"I—" She stops. Pulls the jacket tighter instead of arguing. It swallows her. The sleeves hang past her hands.
I want to touch her. Smooth the crease between her brows. Pull her close until she stops shivering.
Instead I shove my hands deep in my pockets, curl my fingers into fists where she can't see.
"Come on," she says finally, her voice softer than before. "I'll walk you back."
"Don't need walking."
"I know." She's already moving, falling into step beside me. "I'm doing it anyway."
We head down the street together. Our footsteps echo off the pavement, hers quick and light, mine heavy. She doesn't give back the jacket. Keeps it pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. The sleeves still hang past her fingertips.
The walk's quiet. No one else is out. Just us and the streetlamps casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
The rowhouse is dark when we arrive. Quiet. No lights in the other units. The windows stare down at us like closed eyes.
"Thanks," I say, stopping at the gate. My hand rests on the cold iron.
She nods. Hesitates. Shifts her weight from foot to foot like she wants to say something else. "Be careful, okay?"
"Always am."
"Liar." But she's almost smiling. She hands back the jacket, fingers brushing mine. "Goodnight, Grath."
"Goodnight."
I watch until she turns the corner. Then I head inside.
The apartment feels smaller than usual. Darker. I don't turn on the lights. Just sit on the bed and stare out the window at the street below.
The hours crawl by like wounded things. I don't move from the bed except to pace the narrow strip of floor between the window and the door. Back and forth. Each pass takes eight steps. I count them without meaning to.
Sleep doesn't come. Doesn't even knock. My mind won't settle—keeps circling back to Maris walking away, the jacket returned, her fingers warm against mine for just a breath. Then to Harrow. The smug set of his mouth. The casual cruelty in how he'd leaned forward, like he owned the space, owned the threat, owned the outcome before it even arrived.
I sit back down. Stand up again. The apartment holds its breath around me.
