Then the door opened — just a sliver. Just enough for his voice to come through, raw and hollow.
"You shouldn't see me like this."
Her eyes welled. "Then let me be the one who does."
A pause.
And then the door opened fully.
Aiden stood there shirtless, dried blood cracked along his collarbone and ribs, eyes hollowed with exhaustion, grief, and something worse: quiet acceptance.
He looked like a fallen soldier.
Rosalie stepped in, and the door closed softly behind her.
Neither of them said a word.
Not yet.
They didn't have to.
Not with the silence stretching between them like a pulse.
Not when something fragile had already started to mend.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK
They both froze as three heavy knocks on the door startled them. The door opened with a soft creak, and Steve stood there, his silhouette tall and solid against the early morning light. His eyes took in the scene—Rosalie still standing in the hall, and Aiden, bruised and bloodied, barely upright.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight.
"Alright," Steve said, tone even but laced with concern. "I don't need to know everything right now. But you look like a man who's been through five kinds of hell."
Aiden didn't say anything. Just nodded once, shoulders heavy.
Steve stepped inside, careful to leave space between them. His voice dropped a little, more father than deputy now. "Go clean up. Shower. Get something on that don't look like you crawled out of a murder scene."
Rosalie glanced at Aiden, uncertain if she should leave or stay.
Steve caught the look. "You too, miss. He's got five minutes of peace coming to him. No questions. No drama. Just water and silence."
She opened her mouth to object but stopped.
Aiden rubbed his forehead, sighing. "Thanks, Steve."
"You've got blood on your ear," Steve replied. "Go wash the weight off, son. One layer at a time."
Aiden stepped past Rosalie, barely touching her arm on the way. She flinched—not from fear, but from the quiet intimacy of that touch. Like he was reminding her he was still here, even if the man he used to be was bleeding out inside him.
He disappeared into the bathroom, the door shutting gently behind him.
The water came on almost immediately, hissing through the pipes like rainfall on a tin roof. Rosalie sat down on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, foot tapping with impatience and worry she couldn't shake.
Steve stood nearby, watching the closed door for a long moment.
"You care about him," he said quietly.
Rosalie looked up, defensive at first—then nodded. "I do."
Steve nodded, not judging. Just thinking.
"Then let him come back to you. Whole."