Chapter 176 Tea and Heavy Bags

Chapter 176 Tea and Heavy Bags
Theodore’s POV

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into the hallway with a stack of files tucked under my arm. Vane’s name was stamped across the top folder in red ink — the kind of ink reserved for problems that don’t go away on their own.

Something in my gut had been wrong all evening, and the closer I got to the penthouse, the heavier that feeling became.

The air in the hallway felt… off.

I knocked once.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Still nothing.

So I let myself in.

The moment the door opened, the atmosphere hit me like a physical force. The penthouse wasn’t quiet — it was charged. The kind of quiet that comes after shouting, after breaking, after something inside a person snaps, and the pieces haven’t settled yet.

The living room lights were off, but the city outside poured in through the windows, casting fractured gold across the floor. The place looked untouched, but the silence told a different story.

Mila was curled up on the sofa.

Not asleep.

Not crying.

Not reading.

Just… sitting there.

Her knees were pulled to her chest, her gaze fixed on the skyline. But she wasn’t really looking at it. Her eyes were unfocused, distant, hollow in a way that made my chest tighten.

A glass of water sat on the table beside her, untouched.

She didn’t look up when I entered.

She didn’t seem to notice I was there at all.

I set the files down quietly, watching her for a moment. Her breathing was shallow. Her shoulders were stiff. Her fingers were curled around the blanket on her lap, but not holding it — just resting there, like she’d forgotten it existed.

Shock.

Not the dramatic kind.

The quiet kind.

The dangerous kind.

“Mila,” I said softly.

Her eyes didn’t flicker. Her posture didn’t shift. She didn’t blink.

She was somewhere else entirely.

I didn’t push. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t try to force her into conversation. I’d seen this kind of dissociation before — the kind that comes after emotional whiplash, after a person’s world tilts too fast for their mind to catch up.

I walked past her, heading toward the hallway.

That’s when I heard it.

A rhythmic thud.

Heavy.

Relentless.

Punishing.

The gym.

I followed the sound, each impact growing louder as I approached. When I reached the doorway, I saw him.

Nate.

He was shirtless, sweat dripping down his back, fists wrapped in tape that was already fraying. The heavy bag swung violently with each strike, the chain rattling overhead.

He was punishing himself.

His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged. Every punch landed with the kind of force that would break bone if it hit anything other than canvas.

I just watched him for a moment, letting the scene settle into place.

I’d known Nate for years. I’d seen him angry, reckless, furious, broken. But this wasn’t any of those things. This was guilt. This was fear. This was self-loathing.

I hated seeing it.

But he wouldn’t let me stop him.

He wouldn’t let anyone stop him.

I backed away quietly, leaving him to his storm.

When I returned to the living room, Mila hadn’t moved. Her water glass still sat untouched. Her gaze was still fixed on the skyline.

I walked into the kitchen.

Filled the kettle.

Turned it on.

The soft click of the switch was the only sound in the room.

I found the chamomile tea she liked — the one she reached for whenever she was overwhelmed. I steeped it carefully, letting the steam rise, letting the scent fill the air.

When it was ready, I set the mug on the table beside her, replacing the untouched water. Then I unfolded the blanket draped over the back of the couch and laid it gently across her shoulders.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t pull away.

She didn’t thank me.

She just kept staring out at the city, her eyes unfocused, her breathing shallow.

I didn’t say a word.

Sometimes, presence mattered more than conversation.

I sat in the armchair across from her, not watching her, not staring, just… being there. The kettle clicked again as it cooled. The thuds from the gym continued in the distance, slower now, but still heavy.

After a while, Mila’s fingers twitched.

She reached for the tea.

She didn’t drink it.

She just held it, palms wrapped around the mug like she needed the warmth to remind her she was still here. Her shoulders rose and fell in small, uneven breaths. The city lights flickered across her face, catching on the faint redness around her eyes.

I stayed until her breathing steadied.

Until her shoulders dropped half an inch.

Until the blankness in her eyes softened into something fragile, something human again.

Only then did I shift in my chair, preparing to stand.

My movement must have caught her attention, because her gaze flickered — slow, heavy — toward me. For the first time since I walked in, she seemed to notice me.

“Theo…” Her voice was thin. “Thank you.”

Two words.

But they hit harder than anything Nate had thrown at that heavy bag.

I swallowed, keeping my expression neutral. She didn’t need to see what those words did to me. She didn’t need the weight of my feelings added to everything she was already carrying.

“You’re welcome,” I said quietly.

She blinked, her eyes unfocused again, but her hand tightened around the mug — a small, instinctive gesture that told me she was still present, still fighting her way back.

I gathered the files on Vane, tucking them under my arm. I didn’t disturb her further. I didn’t check on Nate. I didn’t say anything else.

But I didn’t leave immediately, either.

I stood there for a moment, watching her stare out at the city. She looked small.

And I wished — selfishly, quietly — that I could do more than make tea and sit in silence.

But that wasn’t my place.

So I turned toward the door.

I walked toward the elevator, pressing the button with my free hand.

That’s when I saw it.

A motorcycle was parked across the street.

The rider sat astride it, helmet on, posture relaxed — too relaxed. He wasn’t scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t adjusting anything. He wasn’t waiting for someone.

He was watching.

Watching the penthouse windows—the floor where Mila sat.

Watching the building like he had all the time in the world.

The streetlight flickered overhead, casting a brief glow across the rider’s helmet. Even from this distance, I recognized the stance. The stillness. The way he held himself was like a man who didn’t need to hide because he wanted to be seen.

Duane Feeks.

My stomach tightened.

The elevator doors opened.

I didn’t step inside.

I kept my eyes on the motorcycle until the rider finally turned his head — just slightly — acknowledging me.

Not threatening.

Not rushing.

Just… letting me know he knew I’d seen him, before driving off.

Then he looked back at the penthouse.

I stepped into the elevator.

And the doors closed.