Thou Shalt Not Steal from Thy Neighbour

Distilled ectoplasm, unlike its cruder cousin spectral mead, is not something one should sip unless one is already dead or has lost a bet. Clark, naturally, had done both.

She's leaning on Matthew like she was designed to, head lolling against his shoulder, mumbling something about clouds tasting like cotton candy and regret. Matthew, for his part, is doing that thing responsible people do when a menace reincarnate made questionable life choices: carrying them home while silently preparing to mock them about it later.

And then, like the biblical flood, it happens.

Out of the dark steps out, the reason Matthew immediately mutters a very quiet, very emphatic, fuck.

Clarence.

Captain of the Elite Squad. Lover of rules, long glares, and extremely well-tailored coats. He doesn't walk out so much as materialize—a looming shadow with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a stare that could give a ghost a panic attack.

Now, if looks can kill, Matthew will already be halfway into disappearing from the Book of Life.

Clarence doesn't say anything at first. He just stares. At them. At the way Clark is leaning into Matthew, eyes closed, lips parted slightly in sleep or unconscious flirtation. At the way Matthew's arm is casually curled around her waist—too protective, too familiar to be professional.

Clarence's jaw tightens. Somewhere, an angel drops their teacup.

Clark stirs.

"I think I'm hallucinating," she mutters, pointing rather lazily in the captain's direction. "Because I can see... Clarence. And I really shouldn't be seeing Clarence."

"You're not," Matthew deadpans. "Unfortunately."

Clarence finally speaks, his voice calm but carrying the weight of about a thousand unsaid things.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

Matthew doesn't miss a beat.

"Nothing really," he replies. "We were just about to leave."

Clarence doesn't even glance at him.

"I'm not talking to you."

There's a pause.

Matthew rolls his tongue in his cheek, a move halfway between annoyance and amusement.

"Well," he says lightly, "she can't talk for herself right now, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Clarence doesn't respond. He just glares. You could fry an egg on the tension between them, sunny side up preferably.

"I'm taking her home," Matthew adds, adjusting his hold on her.

"Which one? Hers or yours?"

Matthew grins at that. Full teeth, all sin.

"The one with the bed."

Clarence exhales through his nose. Not a word, not a grunt —a huff that might've collapsed a lesser soul.

Matthew sees the flicker in his eye. Knows exactly what that question really meant. That Clarence knows Clark doesn't have a bed in her place. Just a couch and a velvet blanket. So that leaves his house.

"She's not part of your team," Clarence grits out. "No need to trouble yourself."

He steps forward, and for a moment it looks like he might actually reach for her.

Matthew's grip tightens, casual but final.

"This isn't official business, Captain," he says smoothly. "No need to assert your... jurisdiction."

There is a shaking silence you can only hear when watching a duel, before opponents pull their guns out.

Clark shifts again.

"I think I'm hungry," she mumbles.

Matthew doesn't take his eyes off Clarence.

"Hold on, sweetie," he murmurs, brushing a hand through her hair. "Give me a moment with your captain."

Clarence's nostrils flare.

He hates that word.

Sweetie.

It's so... Matthew. So deliberately irritating. So petty.

He opens his mouth, "Matthew—"

"If you don't mind, Captain," He cuts in, sharp and smiling like a knife, "I have to feed her now."

And just like that, they vanish.

Poof.

No smoke. No flair. Just a blink of light and a bitter, lingering quiet.

Clarence stands there a moment longer, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides.

--

Matthew arrives with Clark still draped around him like a particularly affectionate coat. She's mumbling in half-syllables, cheek pressed to his shoulder, her steps entirely decorative at this point. If she were any more relaxed, she'd be vapor.

The elevator pings open to a hallway paved in moonstone and bureaucracy—this is the Soul District, after all—and Matthew steps into his penthouse. A place of fine luxury money can't buy, except by reaper credits.

Veil-approved black marble, glass walls that overlook eternal twilight, and a liquor cabinet that can get even the most ancient of ghosts to gossip. A place where death is styled with silk robes and espresso machines that brew something stronger than regret.

He's halfway through the threshold when—

Ping.

Elevator again.

Matthew mumbles another swear word. He doesn't need to look. He knows.

Clark moves hearing the sound of footsteps behind them and lifts her head from his shoulder just enough to squint into the darkened hall.

And there he is.

Clarence.

Again.

Still forged from steel and unspoken emotions, still dressed like a noir detective who forgot what smiling was for. His teeth grinding in a way that suggests he's either furious or has bitten down on something far too bitter—like his own pride.

Clark's eyes go wide. Then narrow. Then wide again.

"I keep seeing things," she whispers like it's a haunting. "I swear, I just saw Clarence again. Glaring. Very life-like."

Matthew doesn't turn around.

"You're not," he says, one arm still firmly around her waist. "He lives next door."

A pause.

Clark's brows furrow, her brain trying to thread that together with her current blood-ectoplasm ratio.

"Whaaat?"

Matthew sighs, finally glancing over his shoulder as Clarence walks over like doom itself.

Because yes, the Veil is a strange and dramatic place. And in this version of existence, the Head Reaper and the Captain of the Elite Squad—two beings with the emotional maturity of a pair of sword-wielding alley cats—live on the same floor. In the same building. Sharing a wall. The bromance of bureaucracy.

Clarence doesn't say a word. He just walks past them quietly like a predator who isn't hungry yet, but could be persuaded. His eyes flick to where Matthew is still holding Clark.

He doesn't like it. At all.

Matthew tries to walk her inside, but Clark's legs finally stage a complete rebellion.

With a sigh that says "of course," he lifts her into his arms like she's nothing more than a well-dressed problem, which, in many ways, she is.

Clarence watches. Arms crossed like he might physically stop this if not for the ancient, unspeakable laws of "don't be a dick in the hallway."

But before he can even exhale a protest, the door to Matthew's penthouse slams shut in his face.

Inside, Matthew lays her gently on the vast bed, the one meant for collapsing after fighting off rogue souls or arguing with admin for eight hours straight. She's completely out now, breathing slow, one arm flopped over her head.

He kneels, brushes the hair from her face.

And stares.

It's not love, not the way poets mean it. But something quieter. Older. The kind of fondness you develop after watching someone burn down every safety rail and still somehow survive.

She's gotten herself into so much trouble by having this face, he thinks. This ridiculous, fearless, tragic face.

He eyes her boots, which by Veil market rates, can buy ten beds, six coffee machines, and probably a week of Matthew's eternal patience. He starts unlacing them while thinking on lecturing her on spending priorities when she's sober.

He doesn't touch her skin. He just pulls a blanket—thick, cloud-soft, blessed by three different afterlife seamstresses—over her entire face.

Then grins.

"Well done, me," he whispers at his own handiwork, like a man who's buried a very fashionable ghost.

And just like that, he leaves. Heads to the smaller bedroom down the hall, the one he never uses unless someone's snoring in the main one.

It's a graveyard.

For about fifteen minutes.

Then, he's there.

Clarence.

Standing silently by the bed like a storm pretending to be a man.

He watches from a distance at first.

Silent as grief and with a stillness only the dead—or the heartbreakingly devoted—can master.

Her breathing is soft. Steady. Probably the first real sleep she's had since clawing her way out of Hell. She told him she doesn't sleep. Said it with a smirk, like sleep was a luxury for softer things. Said it like it didn't hurt to say.

But now she is.

And he listens at her counted breaths. Measured. Muffled by the weight of a velvet comforter some lunatic (Matthew, obviously) thought was appropriate to pull over her face.

Once he's sure, utterly, miserably sure, he begins to move.

Clarence walks like the night. Not in the poetic, dramatic sense. No. In the real, dread-heavy, creeping way the night moves when it settles on your chest and refuses to let go.

He pulls the blanket down slowly, like peeling back a secret. Her face emerges like moonlight beneath a heavy sky. Even in this dim glimmer, she's all sharp cheekbones and tragedy. No armour. No smirk. Just... her.

He kneels by her bedside.

He doesn't sigh. Doesn't dare.

His fingers reach out, close enough to brush, to hold, to tremble—but they don't. God, he wants to. But no.

Instead, he studies her face like a man who's memorized it already and still isn't sure it's real. The arch of her brows, the curve of her lashes, the burn-mark blush of ectoplasm still clinging to her cheeks. Then her lips.

Those lips.

Supple. Sinful. Sanctified by every stolen moment of their past life.

He used to kiss them.

He used to.

Now all he does is miss her with the kind of ache that doesn't go away with time. It sharpens. Refines itself. Becomes religious in nature.

He closes his eyes and sends a plea somewhere skyward, to anyone still listening. Not yet. Don't let her wake yet. Just a few more seconds. A few more stolen seconds.

Because if she opens her eyes now and sees him on his knees, while his heart unspooled and bleeding—he might have to cut off his own hand just to survive the shame.

I'm sure the angels are watching. Probably taking notes. Probably laughing.

Because restraint, you see, is a kind of suffering they don't teach in Heaven. Not the way Clarence feels it. Not with the urge to kiss her until the world forgets it hurt her.

He wants—wants—to lean down, to press his mouth to her forehead and breathe her in like he might never get the chance again. He wants to whisper her name in the dark and feel it echo back. He wants to gather her into his arms and...

But he doesn't.

There isn't a soul in a thousand years that he's ever loved more than her.

There isn't anyone else.

And yet—he doesn't touch her.

He lets the wanting show only for himself, then withdraws.

He walks away. Like always.

And as if her demons have waited for her guard to be gone, the moment Clarence disappears, the nightmare begins.

They always begin softly. That's the most insidious part of it. It lulls her in, just like it did the first time she dared to close her eyes in Hell.

Darkness. Not the kind that weighs, but the kind that deceives. Quiet. Empty. She walks—barefoot, always barefoot—through the endless black, the sound of her own steps echoing back too slowly, as if the void mocks her pace. There's no end, no beginning, just her and the abyss.

And then they come.

The damned.

They never forget her. She remembers every single one. She carved justice into their skin, etched punishment in their bones. They come with hollow eyes and jagged mouths that speak her name like a curse. Some beg, some laugh, most scream.

She flinches when they reach for her. The air thickens. The shadows shift again.

Now the demons follow.

Those who never forgave her rise out of the dark, born from sulphur and spite. They crawl from cracks in the black, sneering, watching her with unholy hunger. Not just for her blood—but for her ruin. They hate her. Because the Princes like her. Because the fire didn't break her. Because she's still standing. And all of them want one thing: to remind her she's still in Hell even when she's not.

Her sleeping body twitches. She rolls beneath the sheets, legs tangled. Her breath catches. A whimper. Then another. The kind of sound that doesn't belong to someone like her.

Across the penthouse, Matthew's eyes blink open.

A Reaper's instincts are sharper than the blades they carry. He doesn't need to hear the full nightmare. The soft moaning, the whispered "no...", is enough.

He gets up without sound, stands in the dark hallway outside her door. He doesn't go in. Not yet. He waits, back pressed to the wall. Listening.

Inside, Clark wakes.

No gasp. No scream. Just her eyes flying open. Her fingers already curled around her reaper blade that materializes in her hand. Her breath is ragged, every inhale sharp like broken glass. She sits up, spine tight as a bowstring, ready to strike.

Through the slightly open door, Matthew watches the silhouette of her figure as she clenches her chest, trying to reel herself back in. Her free hand trembles as it reaches for the blanket, not out of comfort but concealment. Like hiding from the cold would hide her from everything else. Her blade flickers out of existence. She wraps herself, like that would shield her.

And then, the most painful thing of all—she cries.

Not loudly. Not like someone asking to be heard. But quietly. As if the act of weeping itself is shameful. Like her tears are a betrayal of the persona she's spent years building.

Matthew doesn't move. He stays there, one hand on the wall, the other curled into a useless fist.

He's known a lot of pain in his very long existence. He's seen people break in beautiful, dramatic ways. But Clark breaks like a fortress—secretly, and only when no one is supposed to be looking.

He wonders if she's always cried like this. Alone. In some dark corner of Hell, muffling the sound with her palm.

And he hates it.

Hates that he can't stop it. That she won't let him. That the only thing he can do is keep standing there, pretending he isn't listening.

And then it hits him—this isn't the first time. This sting in his chest. This sense of helplessness just outside a door.

A memory flashes, half-buried by time. Another night. Another person. Someone else crying behind a door. He can't quite place the face—but the feeling is the same.

****************************

They always said the South bred sweet things. Girls with honey in their tongues and silk in their smiles, gentle enough to pluck like ripe fruit from their flowery courts. This one, this southern princess, he heard, came with gold thicker than the king's pride and an army fat with banners. And so, the Crown Prince would wed.

It was bound to happen. Kingdoms did not run on dreams.

Matthew had heard the whispers long before they became proclamations. Before the envoys arrived, before the royal kitchens fattened their pigs and polished the silver. He had known, because the king told him himself.

Marion's handmaiden, breathless and pale, tugged at his sleeve as he dismounted in the courtyard. "She's with him now," she said. "He called for her."

Under the pretence of reform talks, of reviewing new policies the King wanted his future council to weigh in on, the prince claimed.

Lies. All of them.

Matthew found her in the corridor near the garden steps, where moonlight slipped in through the carved lattice and the scent of bitter oranges lingered in the dark. She stood like frost—fragile, ghost-white, barely breathing. If the wind turned cruel she might scatter to the stones like ash.

"It's him, isn't it?" he said voice like flint

She did not answer. Her lips parted, then sealed. Her breath trembled in her throat. Her eyes, gods—her eyes were red-rimmed and raw. Like she'd clawed them out in silence.

Without waiting, he took her by the wrist and pulled her into an empty chamber. He would not have her tears become fodder for the court's amusement.

"What did he—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Matthew."

"What did he do?" he pressed, firmer now.

Marion clenched her jaw, fighting the tremble in her lips, the heat behind her eyes. She didn't want to fall apart. Not in front of him. Not again.

"He asked me..." Her voice cracked. "To marry him."

Matthew exhaled slowly. He had suspected as much. This—this proposal—was the boy's last desperate gamble to keep her.

"Did he kiss you?"

Her glare snapped to him, sharp and wounded. The question cut deeper than it should have, and he knew it. Knew exactly how cruel his precision was.

"Yes," she said, barely more than a whisper. "Because... it was the last time. And once... once, I wanted it."

Matthew's teeth clenched, but he said nothing. He didn't need to. He had known for a while now that their moments together had stopped being innocent. That what bloomed between her and the crown prince had gone beyond courtly affection.

And he had not stopped it.

Because even he, Baron of Highcourt, could not protect her from that kind of pain.

He reached for her face, gently lifting her chin until her eyes met his.

"Listen to me," he said softly—not with judgment, not with anger, but with the quiet strength of the man who raised her. "You can cry today. And tomorrow, if you must. Grieve him. I'll let you."

Her lips trembled, and her eyes swam with unshed tears.

"But when we leave the capital at week's end, I want you steel again. I want the Baroness."

Then, without another word, he turned from her and walked to the door.

Marion collapsed into herself, hands over her face, finally letting the sobs come.

Matthew stood just on the other side, a silent sentry, listening to his sister mourn her first love.

And when the crying finally stopped, he remained there still—guarding her grief.

****************************

Matthew's hands are on his face, back against the wall.

He's seen it again, some life that looks like his and those people with blurred faces. And that girl.

Marion.

They've been coming more frequently now, these flashes, and he doesn't know why. He retreats to the room and tries to close his eyes. He hopes that the night will become merciful this time. To him and to Clark, for them to have dreams that can actually bring peace than horror.

--

Clark wakes up to a headache pulsing just behind her eyes, the sting of dry mouth, and the distant smell of something... burned. She groans, rolls over, and realizes she's still fully dressed—wrinkled top, leather skirt digging into her waist, a smear of mascara under one eye like a bruise. Her limbs feel like sandbags.

Matthew's penthouse is all sunlight and glass. Too clean. Too smug. And right now, way too loud.

She drags herself off the bed and trudges to the kitchen. Matthew is there, sleeves rolled, leaning on the counter like he just conquered breakfast and maybe the world. He turns when he sees her—and actually stares.

His gaze sweeps over her like a scanning spell: dishevelled hair, blotchy face, clothes that definitely saw combat. He opens his mouth, tries to form something tactful, fails.

"You're a..." he squints, struggling. "Vision."

Clark exhales and rubs her temple.

"I'm going," she mumbles, turning around.

"No, you're not," he says firmly, stepping in front of her like the world's most annoyingly attractive roadblock. "I just made you breakfast. Sit down."

She stares, wary. "Did you really?"

Matthew gestures toward the table with the pomp of a world class chef. "Last night you said—and I quote—'I'm hungry'. So here. I deliver."

On the table is a plate that looks like it survived a natural disaster. Something blackened and brittle is pretending to be food. A scrambled goo, has fused with what might've been batter, or a cry for help.

Clark blinks. "What...what is it?" she asks, poking it like it might bite back.

"Bacon. Egg. Pancake." Matthew says this with the confidence of a liar.

She wants to be polite. She wants to live. One of those goals is already impossible because she's dead. So really, what does she have to lose?

"Where's your plate?" she asks hoping for solidarity.

Matthew lifts a single piece of bacon, slightly toasted and not charred to hell, and bites it with flair. "I almost burned down my house making one plate. And now you want two? We're sharing."

Clark narrows her eyes at him as he sits down, watching her like this is a test of loyalty and friendship and how much she values his delicate ego.

"I'll get you a coffee," he says, grinning too wide.

Her fork hovers above the plate like a weapon. She takes a bite. She chews. She swallows. She does not die.

Matthew returns with a mug, places it beside her, and—without shame—takes the plate away.

"Hey. I was still eating," she protests weakly.

"No, you weren't." He laughs. "You're too nice to say no, that's all."

She glares at his back as he dumps it into the sink. One of the angels must have heard her silent plea against that pancake and now she thinks she seriously needs to start learning to pray again.

Clark takes a sip of the coffee and pauses. Blinks. It's actually good. Like—good good.

"...The coffee is great," she mutters, cautious.

Matthew shrugs, proud. "It should be. I stole it from the neighbour."

She freezes. Her hand stops halfway to her mouth. "...You don't mean—?"

He says nothing. Smiles like a bastard. Walks away.

She takes another sip, because she really doesn't want to start the morning with a conversation about him.

Then, she throws her attention back to the war zone behind Matthew. Flour like ash, yolks smeared like blood on the counter, spatula melted onto the stove coil, and something unholy is crusted on the backsplash. She can't not say something.

"You don't even know how to use a kitchen, do you?" she asks, arms folded, brow arched.

"I don't," he replies flatly, with no shame whatsoever. "I usually eat with the neighbour."

That word again. Neighbour. This stupid dance around his name like it's some cursed incantation neither of them wants to trigger.

She exhales slowly, takes one last sip of salvation before setting her cup down with quiet finality.

"I'm done," she says, standing.

He watches her carefully, sipping his own coffee like he's got nowhere better to be, like he didn't almost poison her this morning with his radioactive platter.

"Matthew, last night—" she starts, then immediately regrets how soft her voice sounds. She winces, trying to find a version of gratitude that doesn't make her sound weak. "Thank you."

He grins, sharp and amused, catching how hard it is for her to even say that. She's all tension and pride and fraying at the seams.

"You can use my bed anytime, Clark." His tone is maddeningly casual, but the implication lands with a thud between them as he lifts his mug.

She glares, but there's no real heat behind it. Only amusement.

"Go on," he adds, waving her off like a parent sending a kid to school. "Don't be late today. You don't want my neigh—"

She slams the door at him mid-sentence.

Ah, just charming.

Matthew laughs to himself, sets down his cup, and stretches like a man who did not just host emotional chaos and culinary failure in one morning.

Then, he steps out of his penthouse and crosses the short hall.

He knocks on the door of the unit next to his—three times. It's probably the first time he has ever done that.

Soft rustle of footsteps. Then the sound of locks sliding back.

Matthew smiles.

"Morning, neighbour. Got a minute?"

The door opens just enough for Clarence to be visible—barefoot, shirt slightly rumpled, hair damp from a shower. He's every inch the immaculate disaster Clark didn't wake up next to.

Matthew raises his brow.

"No tie? That's how I know I'm early."

Clarence doesn't smile. He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes are sharp, unreadable—but Matthew doesn't miss the flicker. That tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth when he sees him. Or maybe when he doesn't see her.

"What do you want?" Clarence asks, voice low.

Matthew holds up a little container. Something black, ceramic, probably unnecessarily expensive.

"Peace offering," he says, holding it out. "Freshly ground. Thought you'd need it back."

Clarence doesn't move to take it.

"Stop stealing from my pantry."

"Clark just left," Matthew retorts, like it's nothing. But of course, it's not nothing. It never is when he says her name.

Clarence's mouth tightens. His eyes drop briefly—Matthew's collarbone, maybe his hands. Or maybe he's just tracking the smell of the beans. Coffee, not her perfume on him.

"Was she alright?" Clarence finally asks.

Matthew tilts his head. "Define alright. You're going to have to be more specific, Captain."

Clarence doesn't bite. "Did she remember anything from last night?"

"She remembered enough to thank me," Matthew says lightly, watching him. Then adds, "Which, for her, is basically a love letter."

Clarence's eyes narrow. "Stop exaggerating."

"Am I?", Matthew steps a little closer, enough to nudge the container against Clarence's crossed arms. "She passed out on my bed. You think I wouldn't look after her? She's quite grateful."

Looked after her. She almost suffocated her with that damn comforter.

He takes the coffee from him. Not gently.

"You done?"

"Almost," Matthew says, his voice quieting. "You saw us, didn't you? Or rather you saw me kissing her. It wasn't what you think."

A long silence.

Then Clarence, very softly: "I know that."

Matthew shrugs, stepping back.

"So, you're not going to ask me why I did it?"

"No." he doesn't have to, he knows.

Clarence is glad it was Matthew. Someone who truly cares for her even in this afterlife. Even though he wanted to do it himself, he didn't. He doesn't deserve it.

"Okay." Matthew wants to say something more but decided against it. It's not time yet. He leaves whistling softly.

—

The office of the Ghost Crimes Team feels gloomier and colder than the usual cold as the dead feeling.

Clarence has been sulking since he arrived.

Every reaper in the room is walking on proverbial eggshells. The real ones cracked three tantrums ago—along with two desks, three coffee mugs, and one vice captain's cheek.

Declan steps out of his office with a cut on his face. The latest report has apparently been hurled at him with the same force as divine wrath. Another sinner escaped during transport. That makes three. And three isn't a charm here. It's a countdown that Clarence is one incident away from putting someone through a wall.

Anya whips out a cute bunny plaster and put it on him. He smiles assuring her it's just paper cut. Clark walks into this and grins, that's another piece of information she can use to blackmail Anya with when the time comes.

"Who hurt you?" she asks all smug.

They both turn to look at her and immediately blink.

She's wearing dark sunglasses indoors. Expensive ones. The kind worn by either rockstars, liars, or the recently possessed.

"And who told you that was a good idea?" Anya shot back. "I want to talk to whoever is giving you this weird fashion advice."

Clark shrugs like it didn't matter, though her fingers twitches at her sides. "Just bright in here," she says, too casually.

"It's been raining for three days," Anya retorts, deadpan.

Before Clark can construct a better lie, the captain's office explodes. Not literally, but with enough force that the desk probably considered filing a harassment complaint.

BANG.

Wood groaned. A chair whimpered.

Anya sighs. "That's the third bang in ten minutes."

"Maybe he's redecorating," Clark says mildly.

Behind them, the other vice-captains start trickling into the office. They come like soldiers summoned by a scent—something brewing, dark and decisive.

Then—thunder in black.

The captain emerges.

He doesn't look at Clark. Not even a flicker of his gaze in her direction, but she still feels it. Feels him. The shadow of his attention deliberately withheld.

He strides past her, every step a dismissal, and the vice-captains fall in line without needing to be told.

Clark's fingers tighten slightly on her own arms. Her shades are a blessing now—she isn't sure she can keep her face calm without them.

And then, just as the tension is stretching into something unbearable, a woman enters.

Clarissa.

"Good morning, sir," she greets with a respectful nod to Clarence. "I'm here for your reaper. Miss Clark."

Clark remembers her.

"The Chief of the Veil will see you now."

"She's back?" Clarence asks. His voice is neutral, but it cracked just enough for someone like Clark to notice.

"Just arriving," Clarissa replies, already craning her neck, searching. "Come along, Miss."

Clarence has been wanting to talk to her and her first order the moment she returns is to see Clark? He can feel that something isn't right. The Chief does not summon reapers like this.

He reaches out catching Clark's wrist. Not hard. But not soft, either.

Everyone in the room goes still. They didn't look, of course. But every breath is paused like a held note.

Clark's heart skips. Thank every afterlife regulation she is wearing those damn sunglasses. Because there is no way—absolutely no way—she can hide what flashed in her eyes.

"Captain?" she whispers.

He doesn't answer. Not at first. His fingers are still around her wrist like he's not sure what to say, only that he doesn't want her to go.

"Clarence," she says gently, and for the first time that morning, he looks at her.

Really look.

Then he let go.

The room exhales. Somewhere, a chair creaks in relief.