The room holds both of them.
Julian stands near the window, jacket still on, cufflinks catching the low lamplight. Evelyn sits at the dining table with a file open in front of her, pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
No music. No television. No ambient distraction.
Just the quiet hum of the city outside and the soft scratch of paper.
He waits for her to acknowledge him.
She doesn’t.
Not avoidance. Not tension.
Absence.
“You’re still up,” he says.
“I have documents to review.”
Her voice is level, directed at the page, not at him.
He watches her posture—straight spine, shoulders relaxed, hair falling forward slightly as she leans over the file. She looks composed. Self-contained.
“You could’ve done that tomorrow.”
“I prefer tonight.”
No edge. No defiance.
Just preference.
