The house was finally quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator. Nora crept out for water, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. The overhead bulb cast a stark yellow light on the chipped laminate counter, and in its unforgiving circle sat Leo, his head in his hands, the shadows painting his shoulders in sharp relief. He looked up, and the usual sarcasm was absent from his dark, tired eyes. ‘Can’t sleep either?’ His voice was quiet, rough with fatigue.
She shook her head, suddenly hyper-aware of her thin cotton tank top, the intimacy of the dark pressing in from the hallway. He nudged a mug toward her across the table—tea, already steeping, a faint curl of vapor rising. ‘It’s chamomile. Ben’s fix-all.’ She reached for it, her fingers brushing his. A jolt, warm and electric, shot up her arm. She saw it in his eyes too—a sudden, shared alertness, a dilation of pupils in the yellow light. This wasn’t their usual irritated shorthand. This was something else, waiting in the silence between the hums of the fridge.
She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, holding his gaze. The scent of chamomile and old wood filled the space between them. Leo didn’t look away. He leaned back in his chair, the legs creaking, and ran a hand through his tousled hair. The motion was familiar, but the quiet intensity of his stare was not. ‘You always look like you’re planning your exit,’ he said, the words softer than his usual dry baritone.
Her breath caught. It was too true, and he’d seen it. She took a sip of tea to avoid answering, the floral heat blooming on her tongue. ‘It’s a habit,’ she finally said, her voice barely above the appliance’s drone.
‘This house ruins habits.’ He said it like a fact, his eyes tracing the line of her throat as she swallowed. The thin strap of her tank top had slipped an inch down her shoulder. She didn’t adjust it. The air felt charged, thick with everything they hadn’t said over shared dinners and sarcastic remarks. Her skin flushed under his attention, a heat that had nothing to do with the tea.
Leo stood up slowly, the chair scraping loud in the quiet. He didn’t move toward her, just rounded the table to lean against the counter opposite, crossing his arms. The gesture should have felt like a barrier, but his gaze held her completely. ‘The quiet’s worse, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘When everyone’s gone. All that space just… echoes.’
“Why does it bother you?” The question left her lips quieter than she’d intended, but it hung in the air between them, sharp and deliberate. She watched his face, the way his crossed arms tightened just slightly against his chest.
Leo’s gaze didn’t waver, but something in it deepened, turning inward. He looked past her for a second, toward the dark hallway. “Because the noise is the point,” he said, his voice low. “The slammed doors, the shitty shower singing, Ben burning toast at 3 a.m.… It means everyone’s still here. The quiet means I failed.” He brought his eyes back to hers, stark in the yellow light. “It means I’m alone again.”
The confession landed in the center of Nora’s chest, warm and heavy as a stone. She saw him then, truly saw him: not the sarcastic fixer, but the boy holding the pieces together, terrified of the silence between them. Her mug was cooling in her hands. She set it down on the table, the soft clink loud in the wake of his words.
“You’re not alone right now,” she said. It wasn’t a comfort. It was an offering, and her own pulse hammered in her throat as she said it.
A slow, breath escaped him, not quite a laugh. “No,” he agreed, his eyes dropping to the slipped strap on her shoulder, then back to her face with a focus that felt like a touch. “I’m not.” He pushed off the counter, not crossing the space but shifting his weight, a restless energy replacing the stillness. “That’s the problem, Nora. The quiet with you in it… it’s worse. It’s all I can hear.”