Talia's POV
The walk to his place is quiet, the streets empty under the fading night. His apartment isn't far, a modest, well-kept place that smells faintly of leather and coffee when we step inside.
He tosses his keys on the counter, runs a hand through his hair. "Make yourself comfortable."
I nod, sinking into his couch, every move deliberate. The alcohol hums softly in my veins, but my mind is clear, razor-sharp. I watch him move around, watch the way his shoulders slump when he thinks I'm not looking. He's carrying the weight of Belle in every gesture, every sigh.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. We talk a little more, but our voices grow drowsy, softer, until sleep drapes over us like a blanket.
The next thing I know, morning light is cutting through the blinds, sharp and unwelcome. My head throbs faintly, but it's not the whiskey that jolts me awake.
It's the sound, angry, sharp, insistent.
