Page 69 of Not This Place

Ethan released a soft sigh. Rachel kept her peace. They returned to their silence, two figures marooned at the edge of the bar. The clink of ice in their glasses marked time, a languid counterpoint to the racing thoughts behind their stoic expressions.

Ethan's hand rested near his drink, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the wood. Rachel stared straight ahead, her resolve a shield against the intrusion of the world outside.

The jukebox cycled through its repertoire, the melodies seeping into the space around them. Each song became a backdrop to the unvoiced stories that clung to the air like the scent of stale beer and polished mahogany.

"Mom asked about you," Ethan said, voice cutting through the hum of the bar. "She wants to meet you."

Rachel turned, surprise etching lines around her eyes. The request felt out of place, an oddity amidst their usual exchanges of case details and procedural updates. She observed Ethan, searching for the subtext often hidden in casual remarks.

"Your mom?" Her voice was steady, but the question carried the weight of implications she wasn't sure she wanted to explore.

Ethan nodded, a simple upward movement of his head. "Yeah. She's curious about the woman who’s got her son diving headfirst into danger.”

Rachel’s lips parted slightly. She considered the invitation, the notion of stepping into a part of Ethan's world that had nothing to do with crime scenes or victim statements. It was personal, a bridge across professional boundaries they seldom crossed.

"Is that something you want?" she asked, her tone even but probing. There was no accusation in her voice, only a genuine query for his intentions.

Ethan met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."

Rachel hesitated. Her hand hovered above her glass, condensation beading on the surface like tiny reminders of the present moment—one she wished to escape, if only briefly. She took a gulp, the liquid's chill a stark contrast to the warmth emanating from Ethan's invitation.

"Sure," she began, her voice trailing into the clatter of glasses and murmurs of other patrons. Ambivalence threaded each syllable. It was an unfamiliar dance, this stepping closer into someone else’s life outside the confines of work.

She set down the glass, heavier now, empty. She caught the bartender's eye, a silent language passed between them. Two fingers lifted in the air—another round. The bartender nodded, reaching for bottles with labels that promised nothing more than temporary respite from the thoughts crowding her mind.

"Thanks," she muttered, more to herself than to Ethan.

Her gaze drifted to the array of bottles lining the shelves behind the bar. Each one a soldier in neat formation, guarding secrets drowned in amber and gold. Ethan remained quiet beside her, allowing the space between them to fill with the unspoken. Rachel appreciated the silence; it was a reprieve from the necessity of conversation, a companion to the solace she sought in the depths of her drink.

The bartender slid two fresh glasses across the polished oak, the ice cubes cracking as they settled against the liquid swirl of whiskey and cola. Rachel wrapped her fingers around one, the coldness seeping into her skin, grounding her. Beside her, Ethan shifted on his stool, his body language relaxed but attentive.

"Rae," he began, his voice a low rumble barely cutting through the hum of the bar. "You don't talk much about where you came from."

She glanced at him, her eyes hooded. A single breath escaped, carrying with it the weight of years she'd locked away behind a dam of silence. Shoulders rising then falling, she offered a shrug that seemed to carry the burden of unvoiced stories.

"Nothing to tell that's worth the air it would take," Rachel said.

Ethan's gaze lingered on her profile, watching the way the neon light from the bar's sign outside flickered across her face, casting shadows that played hide and seek with her stoic expression. His eyes softened, the lines at their corners deepening not with age but with empathy.

"Everyone has a story, Rae," he pressed gently, sensing the walls around her might just be ready to crack, even if only by a fraction. "Something shaped you into the ranger sitting beside me."

Rachel took another sip, feeling the burn trail down her throat, a fleeting distraction from Ethan's probing. She focused on the glass in her hand, the condensation beading and merging into tiny rivulets that ran down its side to pool on the coaster beneath. The cool wetness touched her palm, real and present, unlike the past she kept at bay.

"Shapes," she echoed, her tone flat. "Yeah, there were shapes."

"Your family..." Ethan ventured, his curiosity genuine, his approach cautious.

"Dead ends and dust," Rachel cut him off, her gaze still fixed on the drink before her. "Just like most cases we've seen."

He nodded, accepting the stop sign she put up.

Rachel's fingers traced the rim of her glass before she set the tumbler back on the coaster, her movements deliberate. The stop sign turned to more of a yield as she frowned, her brow furrowing. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Ethan just waited and listened.

"Parents died when I was young," she stated, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar. "Aunt took me in. Wasn't much for warmth or comfort."

Ethan's eyes remained fixed on her, a silent invitation to continue. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was sharp, focused entirely on her.

"What was it like?" he asked quietly, leaning forward slightly. The question hung in the air, heavy with the potential of things left unsaid.

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