Mission Forensic
Part 23: Quiet Hours
The parking lot near the NIFS gates had all but emptied, its wide stretch of asphalt surrendered to silence beneath the broad shadow of a Java plum tree. Edward’s car waited there, solitary among scattered vehicles, as if set apart for this moment. The lawns on either side lay in hushed stillness, broken only by the fading footsteps of a few late students slipping away in pairs and trios, their voices dissolving into the distance.
Catherine lowered herself into the passenger seat with the grace of fatigue, exhaling a quiet sigh as though unburdening the weight of the day. Her bag slid from her shoulder and came to rest on the floor. Edward entered beside her, the subtle creak of the seat accompanying him, and with a turn of the key the car stirred awake. Headlights cut a white path through the darkness, stretching long fingers of light across the ground, scattering shadows beneath the tree trunks before the road drew them forward.
They did not speak at first. The silence between them carried no strain, only a stillness that felt curiously alive, as though the night itself leaned closer to listen. Beyond the windshield, Delhi rose around them in restless color and movement—shopfronts glittering with neon signs, scooters weaving swift arcs through the traffic, the streets alive with a rhythm both chaotic and magnetic.
Catherine leaned her chin into her hand, her gaze fixed outward. To her, the city seemed less like a place they were passing through and more like a vast reel of film unspooling for her alone—scenes of shadow and brilliance flickering by with cinematic inevitability.
Edward, meanwhile, allowed his eyes to stray toward her whenever the road permitted. The profile of her face in the glow of passing lamps, the cascade of her hair catching the light in silken intervals, the composure she held even amid the city’s tumult—each detail struck him with quiet insistence. It was not drama but presence, not spectacle but the ache of knowing she was there, beside him, and that was enough to make the night unforgettable.
“You’re staring,” she said suddenly, her voice low, amused, without turning from the window.
“Observing,” he replied, the word slipping out before restraint could find him.
Her lips curved faintly, her reflection catching the smile first upon the glass. “You always say that. Just admit you like looking at me.”
Edward guided the car smoothly around a bend, a smile ghosting across his face. “Perhaps I do,” he murmured, a confession offered as much to the night as to her.
***
Night had fully descended by the hour they reached their building, the sky drawn in velvet folds above the restless glitter of the city. Catherine stepped out of the car with a languid stretch, brushing her hair back as the breeze caught at it, teasing the strands into a brief, untamed halo.
“You drive,” she teased, her tone half-mocking, half-playful, “as though you’re creeping home after curfew.”
Edward locked the car with measured precision, the faint metallic snap punctuating the quiet street. “Prudence, Catherine. That’s what it’s called.”
“That’s what boredom is called,” she retorted, slipping past him with a mischievous grin. Her fingers brushed his sleeve for an instant—light as a whisper—before she released him on the stairs.
Inside, she cast off her sandals with careless abandon and let herself fall upon the sofa in a posture of theatrical collapse, clutching a cushion as though it were a lifeline. “I refuse to move until morning,” she declared, voice muffled against the fabric.
Edward set his keys on the table, leaned over the back of the sofa, and tugged the cushion free. “Not even if I bribe you with tea?”
Her smile betrayed her long before her answer did. “Very well. But only because I admire the cups, not the company.”
“Liar,” he said, gently amused, already turning toward the kettle.
Moments later, steam curled from two cups between them, fragrant and alive in the quiet room. Catherine folded her legs beneath her, cradling the porcelain with both hands, a contented hum escaping her as the warmth spread through her palms. Edward stretched out beside her, letting silence settle comfortably around them, content to watch her treat the small ritual as if it were the crowning grace of the day.
“This,” she murmured, her voice softened by the lamplight, “is better. No noise. Just us.”
Edward studied her, the amber glow catching in her eyes. “This,” he answered, with quiet conviction, “is the only noise I care for.”
***
Evening had ripened into its quiet fullness when Catherine rose, a towel draped with careless elegance across her shoulder. “I shall rinse the day away,” she murmured, and with that soft, conspiratorial smile of hers, vanished down the hallway. Soon the muted percussion of water unfurled through the house, mingling with the low drone of the ceiling fan—a private symphony of hush and hum.
Edward reclined upon the sofa, limbs unspooled, the gravity of fatigue tugging him toward drowsiness. The steady churn of the fan drew his breathing into rhythm, and he drifted at the edge of sleep. In that half-world of blurred thought, the sound of the shower threaded through like a refrain—the lilt of water striking porcelain, the invisible bloom of steam rising in the small tiled sanctuary.
When Catherine returned, she seemed to bring the light with her. Damp hair clung in silken strands to her shoulders, catching the lamplight in a subdued shimmer. A sheen of moisture still lingered at her collarbone, where drops gleamed like scattered jewels before dissolving into her skin. The faint perfume of lavender trailed in her wake as she crossed the room barefoot, her presence soft yet radiant.
She paused beside him. Edward lay slack in slumber, his features unguarded, his usual tension dissolved into a boyish repose. She lingered, her gaze softened by a quiet tenderness. How vulnerable he looked, lashes shadowing his cheeks, lips eased into a faint, unconscious curve. Her heart swelled at the sight, struck by the fragile miracle of his being here—close, steadfast, hers in the hush of this night.
Leaning nearer, she brushed a loose strand from his brow and pressed her lips gently to his forehead. The kiss was light as air, yet dense with all the unsaid confessions she had never needed to give voice to. He stirred faintly, sighing into the cushions, as though her nearness reached him even in sleep. She smiled, then turned away with a breath and crossed to the study table.
There the lamplight pooled in golden circles across her scattered papers. Seating herself, she lifted her pen, its nib gliding steadily, whispering across the page.
Behind her, Edward’s sleep loosened its hold. His eyes opened to a room transfigured in warm light, and to Catherine, bent in quiet concentration, her damp hair dark against the pale glow, her figure haloed in a gentle brilliance. She seemed to him the still point of the night, the center about which the house revolved. She sensed his gaze before she lifted her eyes.
“You wake like a cat,” she said, a ripple of amusement in her voice.
He rose and drifted toward the kitchen, where the chill of water from a glass cut cleanly through the haze of his slumber. When he returned, he settled beside her, his MacBook spilling pale light as the dashboard of the Forensic Frontiers Society flickered alive—unfinished drafts, membership rosters, a chorus of tasks awaiting him.
Catherine, still bent over her notes, slid a folder toward him without looking up.
“Dues list,” she murmured. “Check the names.”
So they worked together, side by side, in that intimate silence born not of absence but of closeness. Her pen traced its steady lines; his fingers marked their measured rhythm. At intervals their knees brushed beneath the desk, light touches that lingered like unspoken words. Even duty itself felt transformed—less obligation than pretext to remain near.
When the clock’s red digits shifted to half past eight, the final file was closed, the laptop darkened, and the day seemed folded away into order. They lingered a moment in the golden hush, the nearness of one another enough, while the night outside stretched open and waiting.
***
“Coffee?” Catherine’s voice was languid, her arms rising in a slow stretch that unfurled her like a cat in repose. The soft crack of her joints broke the quiet, but even that seemed intimate.
Edward was already on his feet, keys twirling absently in his fingers, his gaze fixed on her with a look that was part amusement, part inevitability. “Always,” he murmured.
Bean & Chapter glowed like a secret kept. The café was hushed, steeped in amber light that fell in pools rather than floods, shadows gathering in the corners as though conspiring to leave them in privacy. A few solitary figures lingered at distant tables, absorbed in their own worlds, voices low, unobtrusive. The air was saturated with the fragrance of roasted beans, the faint hiss of the espresso machine, and the tender hum of a place meant for whispers more than words.
They settled into their usual table, a secluded alcove where the lamplight painted her hair in warm bronze and carved the planes of his face into softened shadow. Edward ordered his dark Americano—unsparing, almost ascetic—while Catherine chose her cappuccino, its crown of froth piled in cloudlike indulgence.
She leaned forward, chin cradled in her palm, eyes shimmering with amusement. “Yours looks like penance,” she said, the lamplight dancing in her smile.
“And yours,” Edward replied, studying the frothy swirl, “looks more like a dessert than a drink.”
“Perhaps that’s why you’re all steel and edges,” she teased, idly circling her spoon through the foam, “while I’m all charm and softness.”
He lifted his cup, brushed it gently against hers, the sound a soft chime in the quiet. His eyes held hers, steady, unflinching. “Foam merely keeps the coffee from scalding,” he said, his voice lower now, intimate. “You—” his words slowed, deliberate, “you keep me from burning out.”
Her laughter, bright at first, melted into something quieter, a smile that carried warmth like a secret held close. For a moment neither spoke. Their cups cooled, untouched, as silence stretched—golden, unbroken, alive. Around them the café dissolved into blur: the muted clink of porcelain, the distant shuffle of chairs, the sigh of steam behind the counter. All that remained sharp was the circle of lamplight enclosing them, as if the world had contracted to their table alone.
Catherine tilted her head, watching him through half-lidded eyes, her fingers trailing idly along the rim of her cup. The gesture was unremarkable, yet suffused with intimacy, a language of its own. Edward, in turn, let his gaze linger, unhurried, on the curve of her mouth, the delicate slope of her wrist, the soft fall of her hair as it caught the glow.
It was more than coffee; it was a ritual of nearness, a communion disguised as habit. The amber light pressed close, the café hushed itself, and in that small cocoon of warmth and shadow, love was not declared but embodied—wordless, palpable, inexhaustibly present.
***
The walk home curved through the quiet of the society park, the night air cool, tinged with the green fragrance of grass still holding the day’s warmth. Their footsteps moved in unison, her arm threaded through his, conversation flowing in gentle eddies—sometimes light with laughter, sometimes dissolving into silence that needed no mending. The hush of the hour wrapped itself around them, soft as a cloak.
At home, Edward set a packet of chicken on the counter with an air of calm certainty. “Tonight,” he declared—not boastfully, but with the ease of a man confident in his craft—“we dine properly.”
Catherine’s eyes lit, her smile immediate. She tied her hair back, watching him with undisguised anticipation. “If it’s your chicken curry,” she said, settling against the counter, “then I already know I’ll forgive you anything.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, a faint curve to his lips. “Not anything,” he replied, opening his jars of spices with practiced hands. “Only most things.”
The kitchen filled quickly with fragrance—onions browning to sweetness, garlic and ginger crushed to a sharp paste, the slow bloom of cumin, coriander, and chili in hot oil. Edward moved with precision, each gesture assured, as though cooking were not mere labor but a language he spoke fluently. Catherine watched from her place at the counter, her eyes following the rhythm of his hands, the ease with which he coaxed flavor from flame and spice.
She joined him, chopping herbs, passing bowls, her hip brushing his now and then in the narrow space. Yet it was his domain, and she loved him most in it—focused, unhurried, the faint steam curling around his face, the air alive with the promise of the dish she adored. When she reached for a piece of half-cooked chicken, he caught her wrist gently, eyes glinting.
“Patience,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.
She slipped free with a grin. “You’re lucky I love you more than food.”
When at last the curry was finished, the kitchen had become a temple of scent—rich, spiced, alive. The chicken, tender and fragrant, rested in its thick golden-red sauce, the rice steamed to snowy perfection. They ate at the table, and Catherine’s first taste drew a quiet, involuntary sigh of contentment.
“This,” she said, eyes closing briefly as though to savor every note of flavor, “is why home tastes like you.”
Edward only smiled, spooning more onto her plate, his satisfaction not in the praise but in the way she ate—hungry, delighted, wholly his in that moment.
Their laughter rose between bites, playful disputes over whose touch made the dish perfect, though they both knew the truth. It was his creation, his art, and her adoration only made it complete. The room glowed around them—not from lamplight alone, but from the warmth of their voices, the closeness between them, and the simple, unspoken joy of sharing what they loved most: food, laughter, and one another.
***
Later, they curled together on the sofa, the soft glow of the television flickering across the room. The Great Indian Kapil Sharma Show spilled colour and noise into their quiet haven, laughter rolling like waves through the screen. Catherine dissolved into giggles, helpless, until she pressed her face into Edward’s chest, her shoulders shaking with joy. He laughed too—not at the gag, but at her—the way her laughter seemed to take hold of her entire body, leaving her radiant, alive, irresistible.
By the time the credits faded into black, the brightness of their laughter had softened into the hush of yawns. They moved through the familiar rituals—dishes stacked neatly away, switches clicked, lamps dimmed—until the house itself seemed to sigh into darkness. Beneath the sheets, Catherine curled instinctively toward him, fitting herself into the line of his body as though she had always belonged there. One hand came to rest upon his chest, light but steady, her breath warming the hollow of his collarbone.
“Today was good,” she whispered, her voice carrying the intimacy of a confession meant only for herself, yet placed in his keeping.
Edward lowered his lips to her hair, kissing it with the gentleness of something reverent. “Every day with you is,” he murmured, the words an oath as much as an answer.
Outside, the city pulsed in restless currents—traffic, horns, voices rising and fading—but within their flat the world stilled. The night gathered close around them, tender and complete, as though time itself paused to honour the quiet perfection of their nearness.
