Sheila sat on the edge of her bed, trembling slightly, her hands twisting in her lap. The apartment was quiet, almost unbearably so, the faint hum of the city outside seeping through the windows like a reminder of everything she could no longer control. She had avoided him all day, had tried to bury herself in work, in numbers, in anything that could distract her from the ache in her chest—but it had followed her, relentless, unyielding.
When the door clicked open, she felt her stomach clench. Atticus stepped inside, casual at first glance, but his eyes held the storm he always carried beneath his calm exterior. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself, just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
Sheila’s throat tightened. She wanted to look away, to retreat into herself, but someth
