The morning was dull with mist, the sun a pale blur behind layers of slate-gray cloud. The town was still waking when they left, the cobblestone streets slick with rain from the night before. A few vendors were setting up stalls, their carts weighed down with sacks of grain and crates of fruit. The faint clatter of hooves and the hiss of steam engines stirred the fog, cutting through the stillness of the early hour.

  Seraphine sat stiffly in the back of the transport vehicle, her posture flawless and unyielding. Her gloves were pulled neatly over her fingers, the edges pristine, the fabric smooth beneath her touch. Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap, the weight of her own restraint pulling at her. She stared at the window, her eyes fixed on the fading outline of the town behind them as it disappeared into the haze. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t let herself.

  The vehicle was a large, enclosed carriage with a metal frame and wooden paneling, powered by a clattering steam engine. The wheels jolted faintly over the uneven brick road, the steady hum of machinery filling the cabin with a low, constant vibration. The sound was soothing, mechanical—a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in her mind. She was trapped in the oppressive quiet of it all, suffocating beneath the weight of unspoken words.

  Across from her, Shadow sat still and impassive. His cloak was pulled close around his broad frame, the hood partially obscuring his face, hiding the shadows beneath. The scabbard at his side gleamed faintly in the dim light, the worn leather strap crossing over his chest, as though it were part of him—unchanging, immovable. His gloves were still on. His hands were still.

  He hadn’t spoken since they left the inn, and the silence between them felt suffocating, like a thick fog that clung to the air. He didn’t look at her either. She could feel his presence—solid, cold, distant—but she couldn’t bring herself to turn toward him. The silence wrapped itself tighter around them with every passing minute.

  Outside, the landscape slipped by in muted shades of brown and green. Rolling hills gave way to wide plains, broken by patches of forest and the occasional cluster of factory chimneys rising in the distance. Black plumes of smoke streaked the horizon, stretching upward into the overcast sky, as though the land itself was suffocating under the weight of industry.

  The road grew rougher as the vehicle moved farther from the town, the wheels groaning faintly as they hit each bump, rattling the cabin. The steam engine hissed periodically, its rhythmic sound a cruel reminder of the passage of time. The journey felt endless, each hour stretching into the next with no reprieve, the vast, open landscape outside serving only to mirror the emptiness inside the carriage.

  Seraphine stared out the window, but her eyes were unfocused. Her reflection was a pale blur on the glass, her face ghostly in the dim light. She tried to focus on the passing scenery, on the way the clouds seemed to shift, or the distant call of a bird overhead, but nothing held her attention. Her thoughts kept drifting back to him—the way he used to be, the way he used to look at her.

  The slightest shift in the carriage jolted her from her reverie. She could feel the heat of his body beside hers as the vehicle hit a dip in the road, his leg pressing faintly against hers. It was nothing—a fleeting contact that was over almost before it had begun—but it was enough. The brief contact was a spark, igniting a flicker of heat in her chest. She tried not to notice it. She tried not to feel the way his proximity made her ache, a dull throb deep inside that had nothing to do with the physical space between them.

  It was slow, excruciating torture—this forced proximity without touch. Without words.

  She hated him for it. Hated him for being so calm, so cold. Hated him for making her miss him when he was right there, just out of reach, just beyond the warmth that used to fill the space between them.

  They stopped briefly near midday. The driver, a stocky man with oil-slicked sleeves, climbed down from his seat to check the engine, grumbling about the strain of the climb. The steam release hissed faintly into the damp air, and the faint scent of coal clung to the chill breeze that seeped in through the open vent.

  The other travelers disembarked, stretching their legs and lighting cigarettes, leaving Seraphine and Shadow alone in the cabin. For the first time in hours, it was just the two of them. The silence between them felt even heavier now, thick with the absence of distractions.

  She should have stepped out too. Should have put distance between them. Should have walked far, far away from the way his nearness made her chest ache. But she didn’t. She stayed.

  She could hear the faint ticking of the cooling engine, each sound punctuated by the steady drip of condensation from the metal pipes overhead. It was maddeningly slow, as though the world was moving at a pace that matched the weight of her thoughts, dragging her deeper into the morass of her own emotions.

  Then—slowly, deliberately—Shadow shifted.

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gloved hands hanging loosely between them. His head dipped down, the shadow of his hood falling over his eyes, obscuring his expression. For the first time all day, he looked at her.

  The glance was brief. Barely there. But it landed like a physical blow.

  Because there—beneath the calm, emotionless mask—was the weariness. The fracture. The thing he was trying so desperately to hide. It flickered in his eyes, a brief, vulnerable crack that she was almost sure she hadn’t imagined. The briefest glimmer of the man he used to be. The man who once let her in.

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  Her voice was cold when she spoke. Sharpened into a blade.

  “You’re quiet.”

  The words were flat, detached, as if it didn’t matter. As if she didn’t care. But she did. And it stung to say it.

  He didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes flickered, a slight narrowing of his gaze, like a muscle tensing against the blow.

  “I’m always quiet,” he replied softly, his voice low and rough with disuse, like he hadn’t spoken in days. There was something in his tone—something raw—that she couldn’t quite place.

  She scoffed faintly, shaking her head. Not like this, she wanted to say. Not when you used to look at me like you couldn’t help yourself. Not when you used to let yourself linger too close.

  She turned away from him, her jaw tightening, her eyes hardening as she stared out the window again. The landscape outside blurred into a smear of gray, the road stretching on endlessly. She could feel the pull of his gaze on her, but she refused to meet it.

  But she didn’t miss the way his gloved fingers curled into loose fists against his knees. Didn’t miss the slight flex of his jaw, the muscle clenching beneath the hood. Didn’t miss the way he stared at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. The quiet intensity of it gnawed at her insides, a jagged ache that couldn’t be ignored.

  When the driver called them back, they settled into their seats once more. The vehicle rattled forward, steam hissing faintly from the vent pipes. The world outside was a blur of motion, but inside, they were trapped. The silence stretched on, thick and unyielding. Neither of them looked away from the window.

  By the time dusk fell, the road was little more than a winding strip of dirt carved through rolling hills. The forest pressed in closer, the bare, skeletal branches blotting out the last of the sun. The occasional factory or refinery appeared in the distance, but they were isolated, their smokestacks skeletal against the twilight, rising like mute sentinels to an industrial age that no longer cared for its past.

  The engine hummed steadily, the faint rattle of gears blending with the rhythmic churn of the pistons. The other passengers had dozed off, their heads slumped against their arms, breath slow and heavy with sleep. The faint clatter of their dreams seemed far removed from her own, as if she were caught in a different, more solitary reality.

  Seraphine was still awake. So was he.

  The road had long since fallen silent beneath them. The sounds of the countryside—the chirping of crickets, the distant rustle of wind through the trees—had been replaced by the constant hum of the steam engine and the occasional groan of the wheels over the uneven path. The thickening shadows inside the vehicle seemed to deepen, swallowing up the space between them.

  The vehicle hit a deep rut, jolting violently. Seraphine gasped softly as her hand shot out, bracing herself against the carriage wall, her fingers digging into the rough wood. Her breath hitched in her chest as the world tilted for just a second, and then—

  His hand moved without thinking—gripping her thigh firmly, steadying her. An instinct. A reflex.

  The heat of his hand seared through the thin fabric of her skirt, and it lingered, pressing her into the seat in a way that was not quite gentle but not quite aggressive either. It was a steadying force, like the kind that could ground you to reality when everything around you was spiraling. But it lasted just a second too long. Just long enough for her heart to stutter painfully in her chest.

  Slowly, deliberately, his hand withdrew. His fingers dragged faintly against the fabric of her skirts as he pulled away. Too fast. Too sharp. Like he couldn’t bear the contact, like he had been burned.

  For a long moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

  Seraphine’s hand, still trembling slightly, hovered in the space between them. Her heart was a rapid thump in her chest, each beat an echo of something she didn’t want to face. The warmth of his touch seemed to linger in the air between them, heavy, suffocating.

  And for the first time in hours, she looked at him fully. Really looked.

  The cabin lantern flickered faintly, casting wavering shadows against the sharp planes of his jaw. The curve of his cheekbone seemed harsher now, like the weight of his silence had carved away softness. His hood was pushed back just enough for her to see his eyes clearly—dark, almost impossibly so, but beneath them, the telltale signs of exhaustion. The exhaustion of a man who had carried too much for too long and was finally starting to crack under its weight.

  His gaze flickered over her face, but it was brief, fleeting, as though he didn’t want her to see what was really in his eyes. She had always been able to read him, had always known when he was lying or when he was hiding something. But now? Now, there was nothing—just a shadow, just a cold, unbroken mask.

  And for a brief, reckless moment, she realized that for all the time they had spent together, she had never truly seen him. Not like this.

  She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

  Her hand moved before she could stop it—slow, steady, almost reverently. She placed it over his, bare and unarmored, a quiet plea in the press of her skin against his. The contact was simple, innocent even, but it sent a shock of warmth through her, as though the very act of reaching for him could dissolve the space between them.

  His breath caught. It was sharp, shallow—a sound like someone struck through. He froze, the muscles in his arm tensing under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch. His hand remained still, like a monument to a grief neither of them could escape.

  And then—slowly, cautiously—his hand turned beneath hers. His fingers curled slightly, not gripping, not clinging. Just… holding. Just barely. But holding.

  His eyes closed for a moment, as if the weight of the contact was too much for him to bear. And when he finally looked at her, there was no guard in his eyes. No armor. No distance. There was only raw, unfiltered emotion—quiet devastation that shimmered beneath the surface of his gaze.

  She could feel it in the space between them, a painful vulnerability that neither of them could deny anymore. It was the look of someone who had lost something precious, something irreplaceable, and had no idea how to recover it.

  Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she hated herself for the faint sting of tears that threatened to rise in her chest. She knew—she knew—he would never speak of it. He would never voice the words that hung heavy between them, words that neither of them could afford to say. He wouldn’t let himself.

  In that fleeting, fragile touch, she felt everything he wouldn’t say. The weight of it pressed on her chest, a deep, aching thing.

  For the first time, she was afraid—not of what he might say, but of what he might take from her. What would happen when he finally let her go? When the last fragile thread of connection between them snapped, would she have the strength to let him leave?