The secondary mansion was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the heart monitor. Mike stood in the threshold of the room, half-shrouded in shadow, watching the tableau before him.
Arm was fast asleep in a chair by the bedside, his hand still loosely clutching Mild's pale fingers. The sight made Mike's chest tighten with a familiar, hollow ache.
Mike looked at Mild, his expression softening into something far removed from the cold, calculating operative he played during the day. His love for Mild wasn't a recent obsession; it was a slow-burning fire that had existed long before he ever set foot in St. Jude's.
