"He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words."
-Elbert Hubbard
There was no moon the first night she knocks on the door of his apartment, lips curling into a tentative smile as he opened the door. He glances quietly down at the ring she wears on her finger, but steps aside to allow her access without a word.
She smells of strawberries and wine, twisted together with a sadness that is palpable. He still doesn't say anything, his usual retorts and barbs suppressed in the face of her pain. The silence is oppressive between them, nothing that can easily be said. He is everything that she wants, yet nothing she needs. She is waiting for him to persuade her to stay, to convince her to change her mind but he is not sure he is ready to say anything. Usually when he speaks, the words are there to create pain, inflict wounds and he's not sure he wants to start this.
So he doesn't say anything at all.
She stays the night, arms clasped tightly around her and she leans on his shoulder. He doesn't patronize her, doesn't provoke and she finally falls asleep. In the wee small hours of the night, when the moonlight finally filters through the windows illuminating her face, he wonders if this is the start of a pattern, a pattern that would only break her in the end.
But he's misjudged her before.
Two weeks later, he finds that he misses her. Every time he makes his way down to the ER, on one pretense or another, she is never around. Finally he decides that he will wait for her and catches his chance on a Thursday night. He follows her quietly, catching up to her as she leaves the hospital, oblivious to the man just behind her. He calls her name softly and watches as hesitation gathers in her stance. She turns to look at him, her eyes sliding over his frame, not quite meeting his stare. Once again the silence has settled over them, dark and full of unfulfilled promises.
He wonders when it started tasting so bitter sweet.
Finally she does look up and smiles, the smile he sees is genuine. Too late he realizes that the smile is not for him. Chase slides next to her, smiling as he nods his head in greeting. She takes his arm quietly and whispers her good night without a backward glance. He wonders if Chase knows and thinks maybe he does.
Two weeks after that, he hesitates at the door, not sure if he really wants to do this anymore. But he remembers how it was, the whisper of her hair tracing a path along his neck; the cadence of her sighs as she slept, and the warmth of her body next to his, and knows that she holds what he wants. Even if he has to steal it from another man, for a short period of time, so he opens the door.
He thinks he's finally sold away what's left of his soul.
He has nothing to say, nothing to add. So he stays silent and she smiles at him, understanding that they have gotten good at saying nothing at all. Hours later, as she winds her hands through his hair and the warmth of her sweet breath burns his lips; he decides that this is fine, this will work, he could change the rules of this game.
But in the harsh light of morning, she has already shuttered her eyes, closing herself away from him. She dresses quietly while he watches her, avoidance evident in her stance. She stops by his side as she leaves, hand pressing quickly to his.
"I really need to make it work. He's a good man, better than I deserve."
He simply watches her, giving his silence as a gift to her. She leaves, as quietly as she had arrived, and he realizes that he has misjudged her after all. It was more than a game for her, there were no rules; he had only make the right decision.
He had chosen silence.