Three days.
That was how long it had been since the hotel. Since the fight that had left her throat raw and his face pale. Three days of silence under the same roof, both of them too proud, too wounded to be the first to break.
Now they lived like shadows of themselves. Passing in the hallway. Sharing the same air but not the same words. The quiet between them was heavy, cruel.
Tonight, he was in the kitchen.
Sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, pan hissing beneath his hand. Garlic, oil, herbs—sharp, rich, filling the house. His hands moved fast, precise, practiced. She had watched him cook countless times before, but tonight the sight made her sad. Because she remembered what it used to be. Him handing her the spoon. Her laughing with her mouth full. Safe, easy moments.
Now, she just watched from the doorway.
"El."
Her heart jumped.
He didn't look up from the stove. "Dinner's done. You should eat."
