The rain didn't stop. It just got quieter, turning into a steady mist that coated everything in a layer of grey slime. The streetlights outside were fuzzy, glowing like dying embers in the fog. Adrian came back at midnight. He didn't knock this time; he just tapped on the glass of the fire escape window, a sharp, rhythmic sound that cut through the hiss of the radiator. Lena was awake, sitting on the kitchen floor with Barnaby, her back against the oven. She opened the window and he climbed in, bringing a gust of cold air with him. He smelled like wet asphalt and expensive tobacco.
He looked like he'd been running. His hair was plastered to his forehead in dark, messy streaks and his coat was dripping on her linoleum, making a small puddle near her feet.
"I told you to stay away from the window," he said. He was out of breath, his chest heaving under the heavy wool of his coat.
"I was bored," Lena said. She stood up, her knees popping in the quiet room. "And I was worried. You don't just tell someone a hitman is coming and then leave for four hours. I kept thinking every car that slowed down was the one."
Adrian took off his coat and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. He didn't look at her. He was staring at the sink, watching a single drop of water hang from the faucet before it fell. "I had to check on Cassin. He's moving faster than I thought. He's got people watching the Lounge, sitting in dark SUVs with the engines running. He knows you didn't show up for your shift. He knows you're not at your usual spots."
"So what now? We just sit here and wait for them to find the right door?"
"We wait for morning," he said, finally looking at her. "Moving at night is what they expect. It's easier to lose a tail when the city is awake and crowded."
Adrian sat on the sofa. It dipped under his weight, the springs giving a tired groan. He looked exhausted, like his bones were made of lead and his skin was just barely holding him together. Lena watched him from the kitchen. She'd spent three years being afraid of men like him—men who moved in the dark, men who spoke in riddles and had secrets in their eyes that could swallow you whole. But right now, he didn't look like a threat. He just looked like a man who needed a nap and a reason to stop fighting.
She went to the linen closet and pulled out a spare blanket. It was thin and had a hole in the middle where a cigarette had dropped years ago, but it was clean. She walked over and draped it over his shoulders.
Adrian flinched when she touched him, his body snapping tight like a coiled spring. He grabbed her wrist before she could pull away. His grip was hard, almost painful, his fingers digging into the bone. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and unfocused, for a second looking like he didn't know whose apartment he was in or why the air felt so still.
"It's just a blanket, Adrian," she said softly, not trying to pull her arm back.
He let go of her wrist. He looked down at his hands, resting them on his knees. They were shaking. Not a lot, just a tiny, persistent vibration in his fingers that he couldn't seem to stop. "Sorry. I'm a bit jumpy. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep."
"You should sleep now. I'll watch the window."
"I can't sleep. If I sleep, I stop thinking. And if I stop thinking, things get messy. I have to keep the pieces moving in my head. If one stops, the whole thing falls apart."
Lena didn't go back to the kitchen. She sat down on the floor next to the sofa, resting her head against the side of the cushion. The radiator clanked and hissed, a lonely, mechanical sound. It was the only thing filling the room besides the sound of their breathing.
"Julian used to say that you were the best at what you did," she said, her voice small. "He said you could see things before they happened. Like you had a map of the future in your pocket."
Adrian leaned his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. "Julian was wrong. Julian saw what he wanted to see. I didn't see him getting killed. I didn't see Cassin turning into a rat. I'm not a psychic, Lena. I'm just a guy who reacts. I've spent my life cleaning up other people's messes, and now I'm standing in the middle of my own."
"You're here," she said. "That's more than anyone else did."
He opened his eyes and looked at her. The orange light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the thin curtains, casting long, jagged shadows across his face. He looked at her mouth, then back at her eyes, his expression shifting from exhaustion to something sharper, something more painful. He reached out and touched her cheek. His skin was rough, calloused and cold, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.
"I shouldn't be," he whispered. The words felt heavy. "I should be halfway to the border by now. I have the money, Lena. My own money. I have a car and a clean passport. I could leave all this behind. The records, Cassin, the ghosts. I could be in a different country by breakfast."
"So why don't you? Why are you sitting on a lumpy couch in Queens?"
"Because you're here," he said. It sounded like a confession he'd been trying to bury for days. "And you look like him. Around the eyes, when you're stubborn. Every time I look at you, I remember why I started this. I remember the debt. But then I stay, and I forget about the debt. I forget about Julian. I just see you."
He leaned down. It wasn't a movie kiss; there was no music, and the room was cold. It was slow and a bit clumsy, their teeth clinking once in the dark. He smelled like rain, salt, and that sharp cedar scent. Lena closed her eyes and leaned into him, letting the weight of him press against her. He felt solid. He felt like a wall she could finally hide behind after three years of standing in the open.
She put her hands on his shoulders, feeling the dampness of his shirt. He was shivering. He pulled her up onto the sofa, and they just sat there, tangled together under the thin, holy blanket. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. His breath was warm against her skin, a steady heat that made her heart race.
"I'm going to get you out of this," he muttered, his voice muffled by her skin. "I don't care about the records anymore. I don't care about the two million or whatever Julian thought he was hiding. I'm just going to take you and we're going to go. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without red velvet walls."
Lena felt a weird tug in her stomach. It wasn't the usual knot of fear. It was something else—hope, maybe, or just the relief of not being alone for an hour. "You mean it? You'd just walk away from it all?"
"I mean it," he said, pulling back to look at her. He looked almost scared of his own words. He was a man who lived by a code, by a mission, and he was realizing that he was about to drop the ball for a girl he barely knew. It was a stupid, amateur move. He knew it was the kind of mistake that got men like him buried in unmarked graves. She knew it too, but she didn't care.
"Go to sleep, Adrian," she said, pulling the blanket higher over them. She leaned her head on his chest, listening to his heart. It was thumping hard, a fast, rhythmic beat that felt like a clock ticking down.
"Yeah," he said, his voice trailing off.
He didn't move. He kept his arms wrapped around her like he was afraid she'd evaporate if he let go. He stayed awake for a long time, eyes fixed on the door, watching the shadow of the handle. But his grip on her didn't loosen.
Internal thoughts are a mess. This is how people die. You get attached and you get slow. Cassin is going to find us and I won't even have my hand on the holster because I'm holding her. But then she moved in her sleep, her hand clutching the front of his shirt, and he just held her tighter.
Outside, a car drove by, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling in a slow, ghostly arc. Adrian didn't reach for his gun when the engine slowed down. He just closed his eyes for a second and breathed in the smell of her shampoo. It smelled like cheap, artificial apples and home.
In that moment, the mission didn't matter. The betrayal didn't matter. The two million dollars hidden in a wall or a basement somewhere didn't matter.
He was just a man in a small, drafty apartment, holding onto the only thing that felt real in a city made of velvet shadows and broken promises.
He drifted off eventually, his chin resting on the top of her head. It was the first time he'd slept in a week without seeing the blood on the prison floor or the cold grey of a morgue slab. It was a quiet, empty sleep. And for a few hours, in the middle of the rain and the fear, it was enough.