Esmé sat stiffly in the plastic chair, the phone receiver cool in her grip. Across the thick glass, Ethan leaned back in his own seat, lazily twisting the cord around his fingers like this was just another casual conversation.
"You called me here," she started, irritation laced in her tone. "I told you—I don't like being here."
Ethan smirked, ever unbothered. "And yet… here you are."
Esmé exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Why?"
"I wanted to see you," he shrugged. Then, with a hint less carelessness, he added, "I might not get out this time."
Something flickered behind his words—something resigned.
Esmé ignored the weight of it. "Well, your best friend was having a hell of a time laughing at you in the car."
Ethan chuckled, shaking his head. "Milo? Yeah, he enjoys a little laugh now and then."
Esmé narrowed her eyes. "I'll kill him if you don't talk to him."
Ethan let out a low, amused hum. "Gonna kill my brother now, huh?"
Esmé leaned back in her chair, grip firm on the phone receiver. Ethan mirrored her posture, lazily twisting the cord around his fingers like he had nothing better to do.
"I can't believe you had your driver come to my job," she started, voice sharp.
Ethan smirked. "Didn't see a problem with it."
"I work at a kindergarten, Ethan. A guy in a black Cadillac parked outside like some cheap gangster? Really?"
Ethan huffed, amused. "I'm giving them culture."
"Oh, shut up."
He laughed, ever unbothered. "Fine, fine. But hey—Milo enjoyed the whole thing."
Esmé rolled her eyes. "Your best friend is the most irritating human alive."
Ethan scoffed. "You should be grateful for him."
"Grateful?" Esmé crossed her arms. "For what, exactly?"
"For sticking around while I languish in this dump," Ethan deadpanned.
She let out a flat chuckle. "Oh, poor you."
"It is poor me."
Esmé shook her head, unimpressed. "And what's the plan now? Sit in here and charm your way into freedom?"
Ethan grinned, leaning forward. "Depends. You gonna bail me out?" He let out sarcastically.
"No." She squints her face in comedic way.
Ethan clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. "Cold."
"Realistic."
They glared at each other for a second before Ethan finally leaned back, sighing dramatically.
"Anyway, how are you?" he asked.
Esmé hesitated.
For a moment, red flickered in her mind—spilled across tile, pooling around motionless limbs.
The memory of Ethan standing in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his backpack, still too young, still too late.
She forced the thought away.
"I'm fine."
Ethan studied her, unconvinced. "Sure."
Esmé sighed, steering the conversation elsewhere. "I hate the smell of this place."
Ethan smirked. "Yet here you are."
...
The car hummed quietly beneath them as Milo drove, the distant city lights blurring past the tinted windows.
Esmé exhaled slowly, gaze fixed outside, fingers tapping lightly against her knee.
"So," she finally said, voice careful, measured. "Is it true? He might not get out?"
Milo kept his focus on the road, his expression unreadable. "It's racketeering," he said simply. "That's not an easy case to beat."
Esmé stiffened, jaw clenching slightly.
"But," Milo continued, glancing at her, "our lawyer says there's a chance."
A chance.
Not a certainty. Not a guarantee.
Esmé frowned, pressing her lips together.
Then, Milo added something else—something quieter, something heavier.
"If Ethan doesn't get released," he murmured, almost too casual, "I'll take the blame for everything."
Esmé's head snapped toward him, eyes sharp.
"What?"
Milo shrugged, unbothered. "It's what it is."
Esmé inhaled sharply, irritation flickering beneath her composure. "That's stupid."
Milo smirked. "Maybe."
The silence between them stretched, heavy with things neither wanted to say out loud.
Finally, Esmé turned back toward the window, jaw tight, mind racing.
Because if Ethan wasn't free—if Milo went down instead—then everything changed.
And Esmé wasn't sure she was ready for that.
Esmé's fingers drummed against her thigh, irritation bubbling beneath the surface.
"Ethan won't agree to this," she said firmly, turning toward Milo.
Milo glanced at her, barely fazed. "Doesn't matter."
She scoffed. "Doesn't matter? You seriously think he'll just let you take the fall?"
Milo exhaled slowly, his grip steady on the steering wheel. "It's not about what he'll let happen, Esmé. It's about what needs to happen."
She huffed, shifting in her seat, eyes narrowing. "That's stupid."
Milo smirked. "You already said that."
She clenched her jaw. "Because it is. You—what, you just throw your life away? Let them take you instead?"
Milo remained silent, his expression unreadable.
Esmé pressed harder. "You think Ethan would even let you do this?"
Milo's voice was steady when he answered. "I won't give him a choice."
Esmé inhaled sharply, frustration flickering in her gaze.
"You don't get to decide that," she snapped.
"Actually," Milo murmured, gaze still fixed on the road, "I do."
They went back and forth, Esmé arguing, pushing, trying to make him see how reckless this was. But Milo, ever composed, didn't waver.
She finally exhaled sharply, sinking into her seat, glaring at him.
"Fine," she muttered. "Do whatever you want."
Milo chuckled. "Glad we settled that."
Esmé rolled her eyes, crossing her arms, irritation still burning beneath the surface.
...
Esmé shut the door behind her, pressing her back against the cool surface for just a moment, letting out a long breath.
She hated this part of her life—the side tangled in Ethan's mess, in Milo's recklessness, in the weight of things she didn't want to carry.
She needed an escape.
Music.
She moved through her apartment, flicking on her playlist, letting the beat fill the silence.
The tension in her shoulders eased as she let herself dance, each movement shaking off the remnants of the day, loosening the irritation still curling in her stomach.
She grabbed her phone, pulling up her contacts.
With easy effort, she dialed her boss, voice slipping effortlessly into something weak, something convincingly apologetic.
"I think it was something I ate," she murmured, voice just tired enough to sound believable. "I don't feel great—I might need to take the day."
The concern on the other end was polite, unquestioning.
Call dropped.
Esmé exhaled, tossing her phone onto the counter before picking it back up, fingers drifting over the screen.
Her photos.
Noah.
Unseen moments, captured quietly—a quick smile, a casual glance, the way the city lights reflected in his eyes when he wasn't paying attention.
Her heart thrummed as she closed her eyes, the ghost of his touch still lingering, the memory of the way his lips fit against hers tightening something in her chest.
The song faded, its last note dissolving into silence.
Esmé sighed, dropping onto the couch, her body sinking into the cushions.
And as she stared at the ceiling, the edges of her frustration softened, replaced—if only for a moment—by the thought of him.