That made him.
He looked at her.
She did not look away this time.
“Not loudly,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “She tried not to. But she did.”
Darcy swallowed.
The image arrived uninvited and would not leave.
“What do I do?” he asked, and there was nothing of his usual control left in the question.
Elizabeth held his gaze.
For a moment, something flickered there—something that might have been sympathy, or understanding—but it passed quickly, replaced by something steadier.
“You said you would take responsibility for her,” she said. “So, I suppose you will have to figure that out.”
“Elizabeth—”
She did not answer him.
Instead, she turned toward the stairs.
“If you are hungry,” she said, not looking back, “there is food in the microwave.”
The words were steady. Ordinary. As though they belonged to a different conversation entirely.
She went upstairs.
Her footsteps were even, measured, each one placed with deliberate control.
A door closed.
Not loudly. Just enough.
Darcy stood where she had left him, his gaze fixed on the staircase.
He had missed meetings before. Missed calls. Forgotten things that mattered in ways that could be corrected with effort, with time, with money.
This did not feel like that.
Upstairs, a door remained closed.
And for the first time since he had walked in, he did not move.
***
Elizabeth closed her bedroom door behind her and remained where she was, her hand still resting against the wood, fingers splayed slightly as though she had not yet decided to let go.
The latch clicked into place.
The sound felt louder than it should have.
She did not turn.
For a moment, all she could hear was the quiet of the room—and then, almost immediately, it was not quiet at all.
