Nela woke to unfamiliar stillness the next morning. There were no hurried footsteps, no slammed doors, no raised voices drifting up the stairs. Just the low sound of the coffee maker.
She lay there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the pale strip of sunlight on the wall. Jet lag pressed behind her eyes, but it wasn't what kept her still. It was the awareness that the house had continued without her. That it had learned new habits.
When she finally got up, she moved quietly, barefoot across the familiar floorboards. The hallway smelled like brewed coffee and toasted bread. Her father had never eaten breakfast at the table. He'd stood at the counter, always rushing, always late.
David, apparently, did things differently.
He was already seated when she reached the kitchen, tablet propped beside his mug, glasses low on his nose. He looked up immediately, as if he'd sensed her presence before she'd spoken. That, more than anything, caught her attention.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning," she replied.
She went to the counter, poured herself water, and leaned back against the edge with deliberate casualness. She could feel his awareness in the room. But he wasn't staring at her.
Her mother appeared moments later, hair pulled back, already dressed. Seline smiled too brightly when she saw Nela, as if trying to reassure herself that yesterday had really happened.
"Did you sleep all right?" she asked.
"Yeah, fine."
David took a sip of his coffee, eyes back on the screen, but his posture shifted slightly. An unconscious adjustment. Nela filed it away.
They talked about small things. Travel delays. The heat. How long Nela planned to stay. Her mother asked too many questions, filling the space between sentences as if silence might expose something fragile underneath.
David mostly listened.
When he did speak, it was precise. Thoughtful. He didn't interrupt. Didn't dominate the conversation. If anything, he seemed careful of Nela, of his words, of the boundaries he assumed existed.
That assumption interested her.
Later, when her mother stepped out to take a call, the kitchen settled into something quieter. David stood to rinse his mug, movements unhurried. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up again as habit.
"So," he said, turning slightly, "Australia."
She met his eyes this time without hesitation, "Yes."
"You were there a while."
"Long enough."
He nodded, as if that answered more than it did, "Must've been difficult. Being away."
The way he said it was neutral, not pitying, which made her pause. Most people fumbled around grief like it was something contagious.
"It was," she agreed, "But everything is, in its own way."
Something flickered across his expression.
"Well," he said, "I hope this feels like home again."
"That depends," she replied, smiling.
He didn't ask what she meant.
Instead, he stepped aside to give her room at the counter, a courtesy that felt oddly deliberate. As she passed him, close enough to sense the warmth of his body, she caught the faint scent of soap and coffee.
Nothing about him felt reckless.
That, she realized, might be the problem.
Later that afternoon, she found herself alone in the living room, flipping through a book she didn't intend to read. David's footsteps approached from the hall, measured and even. He paused when he saw her, as if deciding whether to intrude.
"You don't have to stop," she said without looking up.
"I wasn't sure," he replied, "You seemed… settled."
She closed the book and finally looked at him.
He held her gaze calmly, neither challenging nor retreating.
Interesting.
"I am," she said, "I just wasn't expecting to feel like a guest."
Something tightened in his jaw, just briefly.
"That wasn't our intention."
Our.
She stood, smoothing her shirt, reclaiming the space inch by inch, "Intentions don't always matter," she said lightly, "Results do."
David looked unsettled.
As he walked away, Nela watched his back disappear down the hall. She felt no triumph.
He noticed her.
And that was enough, for now.