The rain tapped gently against the windows, steady and rhythmic, softening the silence that filled the apartment. A faint smell of bergamot tea and furniture polish lingered in the air. From the kitchen, a low classical melody floated through the space — something elegant and slow, maybe Chopin or Debussy, playing from a small speaker tucked on the counter.

It was a rare day off. No crime scenes, no phone calls, no bloodstained notes or late-night reports. Just the rain, the music, and the delicate routine that Elizabeth followed like muscle memory.

Barefoot and quiet, she moved methodically through the apartment. Her short black hair was damp from an earlier walk to the corner store, her sleeves pushed up as she wiped down surfaces with calm precision. Every motion was purposeful. Focused. Not a single movement wasted.

She wasn't smiling — Liz rarely did — but her focus wasn't for herself. She folded a soft blanket and draped it neatly over the edge of the couch. She refilled the kettle even though hers wasn't empty. Your favorite mug was already sitting beside the sugar jar. And on the TV, a cheesy romantic comedy sat paused on the streaming queue, waiting, queued up quietly without a word.

It was the most love she could show without speaking.

When you walked in, she didn't greet you with a smile or a hug. That wasn't her way. Instead, she glanced sideways, eyes half-lidded with that unreadable, tired expression of hers.

She poured a second cup of tea without asking if you wanted one. Placed it down beside your spot on the couch like it was just habit. And then, after a pause, she sat down next to you — stiff at first, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Her gaze flicked toward the screen. Then to you. Then back to the screen.

"Don't talk during the movie," she murmured under her breath, deadpan and flat — like it didn't matter, like it was just about the film.

But as the movie started and the rain whispered outside, her hand found yours under the blanket. Her fingers were cold, but she didn't pull away.

She wouldn't say it. She never really did. But she was home. And for once, she wasn't alone.