"Some silences are so heavy, you can hear your thoughts bruise"
Days blur.
Morning slips into morning again, and I find myself in the kitchen before the sun decides to show up. Steam curls weakly from the mug between my palms. I only drink half; just enough to warm my throat, not enough to settle anything else.
The newspaper lies open on the counter.
Crime Rates Spike in Northern District
Police Investigate Suspected Break-In
House Vandalized—Possible Domestic Link?
My own house. My fingers stiffen around the mug before I set it down, just by thinking about it. They used the phrase "obsessive ex". But from reading all the articles, I didn't know who they were referring to. On one side, I was the obsessive ex who framed my ex of trashing my house just so I could get attention; and on the other side, I had an ex who didn't want the break up, so he trashed my house in order for me to beg him to stop.
Ridiculous, that's what.
People always need a story. They'll invent one if they have to.
I close the paper. I don't need to read guesses about my life from people who've never even stood on my street. I reach for my phone instead. Big mistake.
Every platform is worse—speculation, dramatization, strangers constructing entire narratives about my past, about Victor, about motives and revenge and scandals that never existed. I shut off the screen before the knot in my chest gets any tighter.
Footsteps above. A soft shift across the floorboards. Grey's room.
I almost forgot I wasn't living alone anymore. It's been a long time since there was another presence in this house; another breath, another heartbeat in the hallway.
Not since Victor.
I don't lift my head when Grey enters the kitchen. I just keep my eyes on my hands as I fold the paper back into neat quarters. I hear him before I look.
The deliberate quiet. The pause by the doorway.
The subtle glance at the windows—every single time, before he enters a room.
Protective. Not invasive.
The new housemaid, Miranda, comes in with one steaming mug. She usually comes with two but I already had mine. So, this one was for him. He nods politely, thanks her, sets the mug on the counter... and doesn't touch it.
Just like yesterday.
He sits, scrolls through something on his phone, lets the tea cool untouched until the steam fades completely. When he does finally pick it up, it's to take a sip of what is now lukewarm at best.
I pretend not to notice. But I notice everything.
Avoids heat whenever he can.
In this December, he drinks cold water straight from the dispenser. Even in this freezing city.
I take a slow sip from my own mug and glance at him without meaning to.
Grey West.
Dark hair.
Grey eyes.
Quiet posture.
Presence like a held breath.
Handsome.
That thought surprises me so much I look away immediately.
Breakfast comes next. Miranda serves it gently, trying not to intrude. I unfold the newspaper again, hoping distraction will work.
But then I see it:
Café Explosion Under Investigation — "Cup of Dream" Shut Down.
My fingers slip on the page. I was there. Of course, I was there.
Grey's eyes flick to me when the fork stills in my hand.
I lower the newspaper quickly, pretending I ignored the headline. My appetite drains slowly, piece by piece. I push food around the plate and make sure not to look at him again.
I also pretend not to notice that he saw. He always sees.
Someone laughs outside, then a siren wails in the distance. My shoulders jump before I can stop them. Grey looks away, pretending he didn't see that, either.
---
Later, in my office, I flip through documents with controlled, steady movements. Grey sits on the sofa by the window, one leg crossed casually over the other, back straight despite the relaxed pose.
He's on his phone, (typing or scrolling) brows slightly pulled in, like he's studying something complicated. It makes him look...
Focused.
Sharp.
Attractive, in a way I don't fully know how to deal with.
I catch myself watching him for a moment too long. I force my eyes back to the papers. A vibration interrupts the silence.
My phone. I check it because I always check it.
Unknown: You think getting a bodyguard is going to save you?
Unknown: Mr. West needs to save himself first (;
My blood stills. I glance at Grey; well, that was a mistake.
He's already looking at me. His posture hasn't moved, but his attention was pulled tight like a wire. Obviously, he heard the notification.
I turn the phone off immediately.
Before I can say anything, a knock lands on the door.
Clint steps in. He gives Grey a long, unpleasant look, one I can't interpret — authority? annoyance? something more personal? — before turning to me with a rehearsed smile.
"About the new commercial building—"
I don't let him finish.
"I still think it's the worst possible decision you could've done," I say simply. "It's pointless"
He smiles in that way he always does — like he's teaching a child.
"Construction begins tomorrow," he replies. "No need to stress your pretty little head about it."
Grey's eyebrow inches up the moment Clint leaves. I sigh as I explain. "He's insufferable. And incompetent. And possibly illiterate."
"He is a strange man" Grey's lips twitch, the smallest reaction, but a real one. I suppose he had met Clint before. "And you have to work with him?" he asks.
"Unfortunately."
"And you haven't strangled him yet?" I blink.
His tone is dry. Teasing.
Sarcastic, but honest.
It catches me off-guard.
"Not yet," I answer, fighting a smile. "But the year isn't over."
Something eases in the air between us. Just slightly.
The next morning, we're at the construction site. Clint walks around barking orders like he owns the entire empire — the empire I inherited. Not him. I think the only admirable thing this guy has is that his face and smirk could help boxers when punching bags are unavailable.
Grey stands beside me, arms at his sides, eyes always moving. Watching.
I help carry cement bricks with the workers. They're short-staffed. I'm not above doing actual work.
A middle-aged woman hands me a brick. "You're a good girl, Ms. Montez," she says kindly. "Not like Mr. Clint. He's... ambitious."
I raise an eyebrow. She laughs.
"He and Mr. Victor were best friends" She jokes, "If you ask me, it always looked like Mr. Clint wanted your stepfather's position. Maybe even his life."
I chuckle politely, but the thought sticks.
Heavy. Cold.
Could Clint have...
No.
But... could he?
Could he be behind the threats? The break-in? The explosion?
If he wanted Victor's power, maybe he wants me gone too, so he could actually get it.
I'm still bent down, lost in thought, when it happens.
A sharp shout. A fast shadow.
Grey's hand clamps around my arm firmly, controlled, and pulls me back just as bricks crash down where I'd been standing.
Cement bursts across the ground. Everyone freezes.
I look up to the potential location the brick may have fallen from. Clint stands above, apologizing with a tone that sounds nothing like an apology.
A smirk flickers. "Silly worker slipped. Careful where you stand, Sophie."
Not dead.
Not yet.
Grey lets go of me. I barely noticed I was still holding his sleeve. He brushes dust from his suit, then from my coat, quick and efficient. I nod, breath shaky.
"That could've crushed me," I say, staring at Clint.
He shrugs. "But it didn't. Don't be dramatic."
Something burns under my skin; fear or anger, I can't tell.
Grey moves past me, picking up the rest of the bricks and carrying them to the workers without a word. I watch him.
For the first time in a long time, I feel... safe.
Back home, I collapse onto my bed. The ceiling is too quiet. The house too familiar and too foreign at once.
I think of Clint.
Of the message.
Of the falling bricks.
And... of Grey.
Grey, standing beside me. Pulling me out of danger before I even registered it. Calm and steady when everything else felt like it was tilting.
My eyes drift to the door...
Ten locks. Ten reasons to stay awake. But tonight? I don't get up to check them.
I let myself breathe. Just breathe.
I fall asleep under with the faint hum of the security cameras in the dark, and the echo of Grey's hand pulling me out of danger still warm in my memory.