The kitchen was quieter after midnight.
Not silent—never truly silent—but softened, like the sea when the wind finally loosens its grip. Stainless steel gleamed under dimmed lights, and the smell of wood smoke lingered, woven into everything. The rush had passed. What remained was the slow, necessary work of finishing.
Willow scrubbed the prep counter methodically, tracing the grain of the steel with a cloth already worn thin. Her shoulders ached. Her feet protested every step. Still, she stayed.
Michael noticed that too.
"You can head off," he said from the sink, rinsing the last pan. "We're done enough."
She shook her head. "I don't mind."
He glanced at her, then back to his hands. "That wasn't a test."
"I know," she said. "I just… like the quiet."
He considered that, then nodded. "Me too."
They worked side by side without speaking for a while, the rhythm easy. He wiped down the pass; she stacked trays. Every so often, their movements intersected—his arm reaching past hers, her step aligning with his—close enough to register, never close enough to intrude.
"Do you always stay this late?" she asked eventually.
"Usually," he said. "The place settles better when you don't rush it."
She smiled faintly. "You sound like the oven."
He huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. It surprised them both.
"You're not wrong," he said.
The laugh broke something open. Not wide—just enough.
"My granddad used to say places remember how they're treated," she offered. "If you leave angry, they hold it."
Michael dried his hands slowly. "I believe that."
They leaned against opposite counters then, fatigue finally catching up. Outside, the sea rolled dark and endless beyond the windows.
"Why Whitby?" she asked, surprising herself.
He didn't answer right away.
"My mum loved it here," he said at last. "Said the cliffs made her feel held."
Willow nodded. She understood that kind of geography.
"I'm glad you stayed," she said quietly.
"So am I," he replied, just as softly.
When she stepped outside later, the night air was sharp and clean. She realised she was smiling—not from relief, not from habit, but from something steadier.
Inside, Michael locked the door and stood for a moment longer than necessary, listening to the echo of her footsteps fade.
Willow's Diary
We didn't talk about anything important tonight.
And somehow, it felt like everything.
The quiet didn't hurt. It didn't press in. It just… existed. I think that's what safety feels like when it's real.
Poem — After
After the noise
and the heat
and the hands moving too fast,
there is this—
two people
still standing
when the shouting is gone.
And in the space between us,
nothing asks to be feared.