The apartment was quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet—soft jazz on low, coffee brewing, bare feet against warm tile. This was the brittle silence of people not speaking what needed to be said. The kind that hummed under the surface, pressing against the windows, threading through the unsaid like a storm waiting to split the sky.
Avery stood at the counter in a faded tee and loose sweatpants, hair still damp from a rushed shower. He moved like someone conserving energy—methodical, muted, tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. The eggs on his plate were already cooling. The toast sat untouched, the edge of it curled like a forgotten note.
Behind him, the front door clicked shut.
Sloane wheeled himself in, tie loosened, coat slung over one arm, a paper coffee cup in the other.
He paused in the doorway, watching.
Avery didn't turn.
