The ride home was silent.
Catherine sat quietly beside Maverick, hands clasped in her lap, watching the city lights smear past the window like watercolors. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching for his phone at red lights. No music. No small talk. Just the hum of the engine and the unspoken weight hanging between them.
When they reached her apartment building, Maverick pulled up to the curb and shifted the car into park. He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable.
"I hope you enjoyed the evening," he said finally, voice calm, maybe even a little careful. "Sorry if I said anything wrong earlier. I've just been… tired, I guess."
Catherine turned to him and smiled gently, though her eyes betrayed her heart. "It's okay, Mav. I understand. I know you've got a lot on your plate."
He nodded, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.
"And… about Valentine's," he added, not meeting her gaze. "It's in five days. I don't think I'll be around. There's this outstation thing I need to be at. Last-minute, but important. I'll send you something though, I promise."
Her chest tightened, but she smiled again, like she always did. Soft. Understanding. Pretending it didn't hurt.
"That's okay," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "Maybe when you're back, you can come over. I'll cook something special for you."
Maverick gave a small smile, finally turning to her. "I'd like that."
He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her lips—short, familiar, routine. Then he gave a casual wave and pulled away, the taillights of his car glowing red in the darkness before disappearing down the road.
Catherine stood there for a moment, arms crossed over her chest as the cool night air brushed her skin. The ache in her heart was heavier than usual tonight.
She turned and walked slowly toward the building, her footsteps echoing across the quiet pavement.
As she reached the lift, her mind drifted back—not to the kiss, not to his apology, not to the promise of flowers sent by courier.
But to a name.
Rose.
Who was she?
Why had Karen said her name like that?
Why hadn't Maverick denied anything, just brushed it off so easily?
The questions circled her like ghosts.
But she pushed them away, like she always did. Because doubting him meant tearing at the threadbare corners of something she'd worked too hard to hold together.
And right now, she wasn't ready to unravel.
The elevator doors slid open. She stepped inside, exhaled slowly, and let the silence swallow her whole.
The moment Catherine stepped through the door, the warm scent of menthol and chamomile greeted her like an embrace.
"Dad?" she called softly, slipping off her shoes.
"I'm in the living room, sweetheart," came his gentle voice, hoarse but steady.
She walked in and found him nestled under a knitted blanket on the couch, reading the old leather-bound novel he'd gone through a dozen times before. His face lit up when he saw her, and even though the illness had taken much of his strength, his eyes still held all the love in the world.
"There's my little angel," he whispered, opening his arms.
She curled into him without hesitation, laying her head on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his heartbeat. This—this quiet space—was home.
"How was your evening?" he asked, brushing her hair with his fingers. "You look tired."
Catherine nodded slightly. "It was okay. Just a little… heavy."
"You don't have to say much if you don't want to," he said. "I just want to know you're alright."
"I'm trying," she murmured. "Everything feels so… stretched lately. But I'll be fine."
He paused, then placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "Catherine… promise me something."
She looked up at him.
"Don't forget to live your life. Even when things are hard. Even when I'm no longer here."
Her breath caught. "Dad…"
"I'm just saying," he continued gently, as if trying not to frighten her. "You're always giving. Always holding things together. But you have dreams too, baby girl. You deserve more than just survival."
Catherine bit her lip, holding back the tears that threatened to surface. "Don't say things like that. You're still here. And you're going to get better. I'm going to make sure of that."
He gave her a smile—one that held love, but also something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or the quiet acceptance of someone who knew more than he was letting on.
She pulled herself closer to him, wrapping her arms tighter around his frail frame.
"Remember that trip we talked about?" she whispered. "To that little town in Switzerland—the one with the lakes and snowy rooftops and that quiet café by the mountain?"
He nodded slowly, his smile softening.
"I'll take you there, Dad. I swear. Once you're healthy again, we'll go. Just you and me."
He closed his eyes for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly. "That sounds… perfect."
Later that night, she made him a warm cup of coffee—light on the sugar, just how he liked it—and helped him settle into bed. She tidied the small apartment, folded laundry, wiped down the kitchen counter, then headed to her room.
She showered, slipped into her old cotton nightdress, and collapsed onto her bed, exhausted but somehow still carrying the weight of the whole day.
Before closing her eyes, she picked up her phone and typed a short message:
"Goodnight, Mav. Sleep well. Hope work isn't too stressful. Love you."
The reply came a few minutes later:
"Night. Busy. Talk tomorrow."
No "I love you." No warmth.
Still, Catherine smiled at the screen, telling herself it was enough.
She placed the phone by her side, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and stared at the ceiling.
Her father's voice echoed in her mind.
"Even when I'm no longer here…"
And then, as the city outside drifted into its quietest hour, Catherine closed her eyes—finally letting sleep take her.