The apartment was warm, golden with soft light when they returned. Nicholas had made them prepare a simple dinner tonight. He let her go change, handed her one of his hoodies—massive on her, swallowing her whole—and set the table himself.
By the time she came back, the food was laid out neatly, the aroma filling the room. Pasta, garlic bread, a bottle of wine opened, two glasses half-poured.
They ate mostly in silence at first, the kind of quiet that didn't feel awkward but soft, like both of them were too heavy with things unsaid, both protective of the peace that existed between them in this little bubble away from the world.
Nicholas watched her fork twist absentmindedly through her pasta, her gaze distant, lost somewhere between exhaustion and thought.
"You did good today," he said finally, breaking the quiet.
Ella glanced up, eyes wide, like she wasn't expecting praise.
