I woke to sunlight spilling softly across the floor, warm and golden. The bed felt empty, though my chest wasn't as tight as it had been the night before. The quiet was comforting, and I realized I hadn't felt this… unafraid in days. Slowly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and padded toward the kitchen, curiosity pulling me forward.
On the counter, there was a plate full of food—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, and a little pile of something I couldn't quite identify but smelled surprisingly good. Next to it lay a small note, written in neat, careful handwriting.
Running errands. I'll be back soon. Sorry—I'm not a good cook.
I smiled faintly, letting out a soft laugh that echoed lightly in the empty kitchen. He wasn't a good cook. Of course he wasn't. But the effort… it mattered. And my stomach growled, reminding me just how long it had been since I'd eaten properly.
I didn't hesitate. I sat at the counter and ate everything, slowly at first, savoring each bite. The eggs were warm, the toast crisp, the fruit sweet. I hadn't realized how badly I'd missed normal meals, the little comforts of daily life. By the time I was done, my hands were sticky from syrup and my stomach was pleasantly full.
And then… I felt restless. The house was quiet, clean, and perfect, but it looked a little… lived-in. A little too bare. I set to work.
I washed the dishes, scrubbed the counters, swept and mopped the floors, and dusted the furniture. I even tended to the small garden outside, pulling weeds and trimming the bushes, letting the warm sun hit my face. Hours passed quickly. The physical effort kept my mind busy, kept me from thinking too much about the past or the basement or the loneliness I'd felt before.
When the front door opened and Lorian returned, I was scrubbing the last counter, hair falling loose around my face, sleeves rolled up. He froze for a moment in the doorway, eyes widening slightly.
"Whoa," he said, voice low, almost incredulous. "Thanks… I didn't expect this."
I smiled faintly, standing and brushing my hands on a towel. "Yeah… well, I had time."
He walked into the kitchen, watching me carefully. There was something in his eyes—appreciation, maybe surprise, maybe something softer I didn't quite recognize. He leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed.
"I wasn't sure you'd even touch this place after everything that happened," he said quietly.
I shrugged, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I wanted to… make it feel normal. I like it when things feel normal."
He nodded, and for a moment, the silence wasn't heavy. It was comfortable. I noticed the way his eyes lingered on me, just slightly, and my chest warmed.
"You know," he said finally, "you really did a lot. The place looks… lived-in now. Like someone's actually here."
I grinned a little, feeling the tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding ease. "Well, someone has to live here, right?"
He chuckled softly, a low, quiet sound that made my stomach flutter. "Right."
We moved around the kitchen together after that, tidying up the last of the things. The conversation was small at first—words about chores, the sun outside, nothing important—but with each passing minute, it felt easier. Natural. Safe.
When I finally leaned against the counter, resting, I caught him watching me again. I met his gaze, and this time, I didn't look away. He gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile, and I felt the tiniest warmth blossom in my chest.
The day slipped by gently after that. We didn't say much, but the closeness lingered—an unspoken understanding that neither of us had to force. I could see him more clearly now, notice the little details: the way his hands moved, the way his lips pressed together when he thought, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated.
And when night fell, I went to bed feeling… full, not just from food, but from something I couldn't name. A small, soft hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be okay.