The sound of her slippers padded softly against the hardwood as she came back into the room, a glass of water in hand. The light from the kitchen spilled across her robe, pale against the darker furniture. She offered the glass with a polite, tired smile.
"Here."
Francis reached out, their fingers brushing as he took it. Just a flicker of contact—small, but enough to make her glance away quick.
"Thanks," he said, his voice low, steady. He took a sip, cool water cutting through the whiskey haze. "Nice house. Warm. Feels… lived in."
She let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh as she sat down on the edge of a chair across from him. "Sometimes too lived in. You should see it on a weekday morning."
Francis smirked, setting the glass down on a coaster. "I can imagine. You got kids, right?"
Her face softened, despite herself. "Two. A boy and a girl. He's ten, she's seven. Both asleep upstairs, thankfully." She glanced at Reynolds, sprawled and snoring. Her mouth tightened. "They don't need to see him like this."
Francis leaned back, cigarette balanced between his fingers. Smoke curled lazy above them. "Bet you keep most of it from them."
She blinked, caught by how direct he was. But after a second, she nodded slowly. "I try."
Silence stretched for a beat, filled only by Reynolds's uneven snoring. Francis tilted his head, studying her. "Must get heavy sometimes."
Her eyes flicked to him, then down at her hands. She laughed softly, but there wasn't much humor in it. "You don't know the half of it."
Francis smiled faintly, leaning forward. "Then tell me the half I can know."
That earned him another look, surprised this time. But he didn't press, didn't crowd her. Just let the quiet sit. His father, Frank, always bulldozed his way into people's space. Francis—he knew better. Subtle worked.
She sighed, settling back in her chair. "He's not always like this. When he's working, when he's focused… he can be decent. Funny, even. But then nights like this happen. And I get to sit here, pretending it's normal."
Francis gave a low chuckle. "Funny, that sounds a lot like home for me growing up." He tapped ash into the tray. "Difference is, my old man never had a decent side to balance it."
That made her laugh, genuine this time. "You're not really selling yourself, you know."
"Not trying to," Francis said smoothly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just saying I get it. More than you'd think."
Her shoulders eased a little. The tension in her jaw softened. "It's… nice. Talking to someone who doesn't just tell me to 'be patient.'"
"Patience is overrated," Francis said. "Sometimes you need someone who actually listens."
Their eyes met for a moment, the quiet thicker now. She looked away first, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You've got a way with words," she murmured.
"Runs in the family," Francis replied, his smirk widening a touch.
That made her laugh again, softer this time. The kind of laugh that slipped out without permission.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low. "So tell me… when's the last time someone made you laugh like that?"
Her breath caught, just barely. She shifted in her chair, eyes darting briefly to her husband, then back. "It's been… a while."
Francis nodded slowly, like he understood, like he wasn't pushing but pulling gently. "Figures."
The clock ticked on the wall. Reynolds snored louder, muttered something incoherent, rolled onto his side. Neither of them moved.
Francis picked up the glass of water again, swirling it. "He ever brag about you? The way he brags about me?"
Her lips parted slightly, the question hitting deeper than she expected. She hesitated, then shook her head. "Not really. Not anymore."
Francis's smile thinned, almost sympathetic. "Shame. You seem like the kind of woman worth bragging about."
Her laugh this time was nervous, a little shaky. She shifted again, her robe slipping at the collar before she tugged it back up. "You're bold."
"Only when it's true," Francis said simply.
The air between them hummed, quiet but charged. She leaned back, crossing her legs, her eyes betraying the conflict she didn't voice.
Francis watched, calm, steady. He didn't need to win tonight. He just needed to plant the seed. The questions, the laughter, the cracks in her armor—those were enough.
She finally broke the silence, her voice softer. "You shouldn't smoke in here. The kids might smell it."
Francis stubbed the cigarette out immediately, no hesitation. "You're right." He met her eyes again, that faint smirk tugging. "See? I can listen."
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head with a small, reluctant smile. "Dangerous kid."
"Maybe," Francis said, standing, adjusting his jacket. "But harmless. For now."
She watched him as he moved toward the door, helping Reynolds's limp body rest more comfortably on the couch. "Thank you… for bringing him home."
Francis paused at the door, glancing back. "Anytime."
Her gaze lingered as he stepped out into the cool night air, the door closing soft behind him.
Francis lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke into the dark. His smirk lingered, sharp in the glow of the streetlamp.
Step by step, he thought. Piece by piece.
The game had only just started.