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The ride back from the ramen restaurant felt different, quieter than usual, though not in an uncomfortable way. The air between Claude and me was thick with something I couldn't name—half warmth, half uncertainty—like the residue of our earlier conversation still lingered in both of our chests. He had insisted on driving, his hand loosely on the wheel, but every few minutes his gaze slid toward me as though checking if I was still there, if I was still real.
When we stepped back into the villa, the familiar silence welcomed us, yet it didn't feel as cold as it used to. The faint fragrance of wood polish and the dim lighting of the hallway wrapped around us like a blanket. I walked in first, setting my small bag on the console table, while Claude closed the door behind us with a soft click.
