His mother, much like himself, despised being alone, though he never admitted it. Now that both he and his younger brother, Jasper, had moved out. The house had grown far too quiet and far too large for just one person. His father was often buried in work, returning home only late into the night, which left his mom dining alone more often than not. He never complained; he never had to. The way he always asked if his children were eating well or sleeping enough spoke more than what he let on.
A sigh escaped him as he rose from the couch, the wine's mellow buzz spreading softly through his limbs. He made his way to the kitchen with unhurried steps. The glass in his hand was empty, but the echo of flavour still lingered on his tongue.
His kitchen was a chef's dream, though ironically, Eamon rarely cooked. It was sleek, understated in a way that spoke more of refined restraint than extravagance. Long panels of matte black cabinetry stretched across the space, complemented by marble countertops veined with soft greys and warm creams. Subtle under-cabinet lighting glowed like amber dusk, matching the design of the Coffee and Wine bar tucked against the side wall.
Industrial-style bar stools, black steel with smooth leather seats, stood in quiet symmetry around the central island, which served as both a prep station and casual dining space. Along one wall, open shelving displayed handmade ceramic cups and dinnerware, each piece unique, with soft imperfections that gave them soul. All in variant colours of warm cream or cool grey tones.
It was there, on the marble surface of the island, that he spotted two sealed glass containers neatly placed and labelled in Edmun's precise handwriting.
He lifted the lid of the first container and was immediately greeted by the rich, earthy scent of herbs. A whole grilled fish rested inside, its golden, crackled skin still gleaming under a light brushing of olive oil. Finely chopped herbs; parsley, thyme, and a whisper of rosemary clung to the surface, slightly charred at the edges to release citrusy, resinous aromas. The garlic and lemon zest that infused the flaky flesh brought back a memory of warm Sunday afternoons and laughter spilling from the kitchen.
In the second container was a fresh, vibrant salad. The greens were crisp and bright, layered with thinly sliced radishes, jewel-toned cherry tomatoes, and cool ribbons of cucumber. A delicate vinaigrette of lemon juice and olive oil coated everything lightly, glistening in the low kitchen light like dew on morning leaves.
It was a humble meal, simple in its ingredients yet rich in taste and aroma. Edmun's signature style, he had always cooked this way, never trying to impress, only to comfort, to nourish, to quietly express his love and care.
Eamon touched the edge of the container as if to thank him, and smiled faintly. The food was still warm, most likely because he'd dropped it off not long before Eamon arrived home; he had timed it perfectly.
Warmth returned to his chest, mingling with the buzz of the wine. He didn't realise how much he missed home until just now, until the scent of his Mom's cooking stirred it all back up.
Eamon sat alone at the marble kitchen island, his fork balanced in his hand, the city's soft hum leaking through the slightly open balcony door. The breeze that drifted in was tinged with the faint scent of jasmine from the potted vines clinging to the railing, but it was overpowered by the more immediate, comforting aroma rising from his plate.
He took a slow bite, letting the tender fish melt on his tongue. The crisp crackle of the skin gave way to the warmth of the citrus-marinated flesh beneath. Sea salt, herbs, and a faint smoky char layered themselves into each bite. Normally, Eamon ate purely out of necessity, rushed and thoughtless meals between courtrooms and case notes, but tonight, he chewed with unusual care, even if his thoughts were elsewhere.
They drifted back to the Desrosiers meeting earlier that afternoon.
Acheron had held himself together better than expected. Especially when the stalking photos appeared on screen. It had clearly shaken him. Eamon hadn't missed the way his breath hitched, the subtle paling of his skin, the flash of panic that flickered across his face before he forced it away. The boy had straightened his spine with practised grace, smoothed his expression, and nodded tightly. Willing himself to be unmoved. To be strong.
Eamon could still see Acheron's guarded eyes, flashes with vulnerability he kept trying to bury.
It had worked, at least outwardly. Oaklen nods in approval, a quiet, fatherly sort of pride in the gesture. Lily had remained silent, her gaze as sharp as a blade, watching her son with a careful intensity. Eamon knew better. He'd seen the shake in his hands, how tightly he'd gripped the bottle of water that Eamon had handed him. A crack, it was there, just beneath the surface. A sign that he was still in the process of healing.
Eamon hated, hated, how abusers had a way of slithering back into their victims' lives like rot under clean floorboards.
Eamon paused mid-bite, the fish hovering near his mouth.
There was something about Acheron that lingered long after their meetings ended. Something soft yet unyielding. Quiet, but not weak. A glow that didn't come from brightness, but from surviving the dark. Eamon had only met him twice...three times, if you counted the first encounter in the hospital, though Acheron had been unconscious then. Somehow, the young man had begun to occupy corners of his mind he hadn't permitted to.
He forced himself to take another bite, grounding himself in the texture and warmth of the food, the sharp pepperiness of the herbs pulling him back to the present.
This wasn't a road he could afford to go down. Acheron was still recovering, still finding his footing. He was vulnerable, whether he liked to admit it or not. And Eamon was his advocate, his protector in a legal sense. He could not and would not let that line be blurred.
Yet, he couldn't help but think about when their eyes met earlier, just for a second, an echo of the same recognition, the same unspoken pull. It had only lasted a moment, but it had burned like a struck match in the dark.
He set his fork down gently, his appetite fading beneath the weight of that thought. He shouldn't be entertaining it. He knew better.
The image of the way Acheron's cheeks flushed pink when he became flustered. The soft curve of his lips when he accidentally smiled. That quiet voice, steady despite everything, when he had said, "Sure, I'm okay with that," crossed his mind once more.
Acheron wasn't weak. He was frightened, yes. Still wounded, but he chose to claw his way back to the surface. Most people would've stayed buried. Not him. He was fighting. Fighting for a future he wasn't even sure he deserved yet. Perhaps that was what drew Eamon to him.
The gentle scrape of cutlery against ceramic pulled Eamon from his reverie. He blinked down at his empty plate in mild surprise. Somehow, without noticing, he had finished the entire meal.
He sighed and leaned back, his hand drifting absently to the newly filled wine glass beside him. It was still half-full. The jasmine-scented wind had picked up slightly, stirring the napkins on the counter.
He finished the wine.
Noticing the late hour, Eamon decided it was finally time to call it a night. The exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, but it wasn't the kind that pulled you straight into sleep, more of the kind that made your skin feel too tight, your thoughts too loud. Still, he forced himself through the motions.
His body only began to unwind once he stepped into the shower and let the hot water hit his back. The scalding stream beat steadily against the tense muscles across his shoulders and neck, loosening knots that had built up over days of stress and sleepless nights. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and simply let the water run.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, motionless, just breathing and listening to the hiss of the water as it echoed through the tiled space. By the time he shut off the stream, the entire bathroom was thick with steam. The mirrors above the wide double vanity were completely fogged, their silvered surfaces turned opaque. Even the large windows were misted over, cloaking the room in a soft, dreamlike haze.
He padded into the walk-in closet that adjoined both his bathroom and bedroom, the plush carpet cool against his damp feet. The closet was sleek and immaculate, lined with tailored suits and pressed shirts, shoes arranged in neat rows below. He pulled on a fresh set of pyjamas, ones he'd bought weeks ago but hadn't worn until now. The soft, lightweight fabric felt oddly luxurious after a day spent in stiff formal wear.
Towel in hand, he ran it once through his damp hair before abandoning the effort. He'd style it properly in the morning. Tonight, he just wanted to sleep.
His laptop and briefcase remained in his car, a deliberate choice. If they were within reach, he knew he'd open them. He'd read over the same files again and again, chasing threads he'd already memorised. It was a kind of self-sabotage he knew all too well. So he'd forced the distance this time, a small act of self-discipline.
Even so, his mind didn't quiet. It never did.
Insomnia had been a persistent companion in recent years. Not the kind that came from nightmares or restlessness, but from a brain that refused to stop thinking. Always planning. Always calculating. The weight of his case-load, of people's lives and futures depending on him, followed him into every room and every quiet hour. He had tried drinking different kinds of herbal teas or burning incense his Mom provided, even guided meditation and breathing. Nothing helped for long.
Medication was out of the question. He'd tried it once, but the grogginess it left behind made him feel as though he were moving through molasses all the next day; sluggish, foggy and imprecise. He couldn't afford that.
With a sigh, he returned to the bedroom, switching his bedside lamp to a low, amber glow that cast gentle shadows against the dark wood and slate-grey walls. He pulled back the covers and slipped into bed, the crisp sheets cool against his skin. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself into rest.
He reached for his phone, intending to switch it to silent. But just as his finger hovered over the settings, a notification blinked to life across the screen.
A message.
The name that flashed made him pause.
His heart gave a subtle hitch, an involuntary response, as he quickly tapped to open it. He found himself unwilling to wait until morning due to who it was, and that was a problem.
Acheron Desrosiers
[Call me, please.]
Dread sank like a stone in Eamon's gut. Acheron had never messaged him before, not directly. The use of his name, the urgency in just three words, sliced through the haze of Eamon's fatigue like ice water. He didn't hesitate. Within seconds, he was dialling, already pushing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.