After lingering in each other's embrace for a while longer than either of them cared to admit, they finally pulled apart, reluctantly and quietly, and returned to something simpler.
Dinner.
They ate at an unhurried pace, the earlier intensity melting into something softer, something almost domestic. The conversation drifted easily, touching on nothing in particular and yet everything at once, the kind of quiet exchange that didn't need effort to sustain itself.
"You're a great cook," Catherine said again as she took her final bite, her voice filled with genuine admiration that hadn't faded even after repeating it for what felt like the fifth or sixth time.
She leaned back slightly, still holding her fork, her gaze lingering on him as if she were trying to memorize the moment.
It still felt a little unreal.
To be here—in her own home—eating something he had made for her, watching him move so comfortably through her space as though he had always belonged there.
