They lay tangled together in the quiet aftermath, limbs heavy, breath slowly evening out.
Rhoda rested against Evan's chest, her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall beneath her ear. One of his arms was draped loosely around her waist, not holding her there, just anchoring her close enough that she could feel the warmth of him seeping into her skin. The safe house was hushed, the city outside reduced to a distant glow and a low, constant hum.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
She traced idle patterns on his forearm, feeling the faint ridges of old scars beneath her fingertips. Evan's hand shifted once, his thumb brushing absently along her side, a touch that felt more thoughtful than possessive.
"You're quiet," she murmured.
"So are you."
"I'm thinking."
He exhaled softly through his nose. "That makes two of us."
She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. "You don't usually let it show."
His jaw tightened—not defensively, but as if he'd been caught unprepared.
"Thinking is dangerous," he said after a moment. "It slows you down."
"Only if you let it," she replied.
His grip loosened. He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, as though tracking something only he could see.
Minutes passed.
Then, without a word, Evan shifted away from her.
The loss of his warmth was immediate. She watched as he sat up, ran a hand down his face, and stood. He crossed the room slowly, every movement deliberate again, reclaimed. At the window, he stopped, shoulders squared, back to her.
He picked up a cigarette from the table, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it. The flame flared briefly, illuminating the sharp line of his cheekbone, the tension etched into his expression.
He didn't smoke right away.
The silence changed—thickened, weighted.
Rhoda pushed herself up, gathering the sheet around her as she watched him. She recognized this now: the moment Evan stepped away from closeness when something inside him stirred too loudly.
"Evan," she said quietly.
He didn't turn.
"Precision isn't something you're born with," he said suddenly. "It's something you learn when being careless costs too much."
She rose from the bed and crossed the room barefoot, stopping a step behind him. "What did it cost you?"
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he took a slow drag from the cigarette and finally spoke.
"My father was an accountant."
She waited.
"He taught me that every lock has a rhythm. A heartbeat," Evan continued, voice low, steady, as if reciting something memorized long ago. "He said if you listen carefully enough, nothing stays closed forever."
The cigarette trembled once between his fingers.
"But he didn't listen to his own rules," Evan said. "He rushed. Took work he shouldn't have. Thought speed was the same thing as skill."
Rhoda stepped closer, her hand hovering before settling gently against his back.
"He missed a secondary alarm," Evan went on. "Three seconds. That was it."
He exhaled smoke toward the glass, watching it fade. "The blast didn't kill him. The men he worked for did. Because mistakes leave traces."
Her chest tightened.
"I was twelve," he said. "And I learned exactly how fast perfection becomes necessary."
She slid her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades. He stiffened briefly—then allowed it, his hand dropping to cover hers where it rested against his chest.
"That's why you count," she whispered. "Why you measure everything."
"That's why I don't miss," he replied. "And why I don't forgive variables."
She tilted her head, voice soft. "And me?"
His hand tightened over hers.
"You're the only one I haven't tried to control completely," he said. "And that should bother me more than it does."
She turned him gently toward her. His expression was bare now—unguarded in a way she hadn't seen before.
"I'm not your father's mistake," she said. "And you're not his shadow."
His gaze searched her face, something unreadable flickering there.
"You make it difficult," he said quietly.
She smiled faintly. "Good."
He crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray and pulled her into him, not rough, not urgent—just close. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling.
"For tonight," he said, "I don't want to count."
She reached up, threading her fingers into his hair. "Then don't."
They returned to the bed together, slower this time, bodies fitting easily, naturally. He held her like someone afraid she might vanish if he loosened his grip too much, and she let herself be held—fully, without calculation.
Outside, the city kept time.
Inside, for once, Evan let it slip.