When we got back to the house, he helped me off the bike and his hand found its home on the small of my back as he guided me inside.
The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt too big and too empty. I left my boots by the door, feeling the cool wood floor beneath my feet as I moved into the kitchen.
Talon lingered by the counter, casting a shadow across the room. He leaned against it, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on some faraway point beyond the kitchen window.
I busied myself with dinner, pulling ingredients from the fridge and setting them on the counter. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables filled the air, the scent of garlic and onion beginning to mingle, warm and comforting. But it did little to ease the tension in the room. My hands moved on autopilot, but my mind was racing.
