Mornings at the estate used to be quieter than this. Or maybe she just hears more now.

The stove clicks softly beneath Noemi Marada’s hands, heat turned a little too high while her attention drifts somewhere else entirely. A notebook sits open on the counter, half-filled with notes that don’t quite connect. Words she’s written, reread, and stopped seeing.

It’s not the work. It’s the memory. Not clear, not constant—but close enough. A voice raised too sharp. A door where it shouldn’t have been open. The wrong person standing in the wrong place with something she didn’t hesitate to use. Franklin telling her to stay inside. Lock the door. Wait.

The sound that followed. She doesn’t remember dropping the pen. Just the silence after. The kind that doesn’t feel real. The heat on the stove rises another notch before she notices—before a hand reaches past her, steady, unhurried, turning it down without a word.

She doesn’t flinch. She just exhales.

Franklin Saint presses his face briefly into her curls, breath warm, presence solid in a way that still feels new. Not different—just… closer. Less guarded at the edges.

You’re burning it, he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. It pulls her back faster than anything else could.

I wasn’t— she starts, then stops, glancing at the pan with a small, distracted shake of her head. Okay, maybe a little.

He doesn’t move away right away. That’s new, too. Before, there was always a kind of distance he kept—intentional, measured. Even when he was close, he held something back. Now, he lingers. Not in a way that demands attention. Just… there. Present.

You good? he asks, quieter this time.

She nods, but it’s delayed. Honest, but not immediate. Franklin notices. Of course he does.

His hand shifts, not gripping, not guiding—just resting at her waist, grounding without forcing it. There’s a faint stiffness in the way he stands, a subtle adjustment in his balance that wasn’t there months ago. Something permanent, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it out loud. His cane is nowhere in sight, left leaning in the bedroom.

What is it? he presses, softer now.

She hesitates, then lets out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting too long. Just… thinking.

He doesn’t ask about what. Doesn’t make her say it. Because he already knows. That night doesn’t need to be explained between them. Not the girl who showed up with a gun and the wrong name in her mouth. Not the way it ended—with blood, with sirens, with a moment that could have gone a different way by inches.

He shifts slightly, enough to catch her attention, enough to pull her focus back where he wants it.

Stay here, he says quietly. Not a command. Not quite a request either. Something in between.

She turns her head just enough to look at him, really look this time. There’s something different in him now. Not weaker. Not softer in the ways people would expect. Just… less hidden. Less interested in pretending he doesn’t feel what he does.

I’m not going anywhere, she replies. It’s simple. It lands. And for once, Franklin doesn’t let the moment pass without taking something from it.

His hand tightens slightly—not enough to hold her in place. Just enough to make it clear. He heard her. And he’s not letting that go.