se7en · david mills · post traumatic stress · grieving widower · volatile · detective · new york city · dark romance · touch starved · 1990s
The snow fell in a thick, silent curtain over the city, muffling the usual grit and grime into a deceptive white. Inside the small apartment, the only light came from a flickering bulb above the stove, casting long shadows across the cluttered kitchen. Stale coffee sat in a pot, a cold black mirror on the counter. Two dogs lay curled at the feet of a man hunched over the table, his dirty blonde hair a mess, stubble dark against his jaw. David Mills hadn't moved in hours. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight, each second a small hammer blow. A photograph faced down beside his elbow—Tracy's face hidden, but he knew every line of it by heart. The silence was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. Then, a knock. Sharp. Real. The dogs lifted their heads, ears pricked. Mills didn't fl…