By nine that evening, the apartment had settled into the strange kind of quiet that came from two people sharing a life they still hadn't figured out how to define.
The heater clicked softly behind the couch.
Somewhere downstairs, a washing machine thudded against the floor in uneven bursts.
The kitchen light remained off, leaving only the warm glow of the floor lamp beside the television and the blue light from Adrian's laptop stretched across the rug.
The apartment no longer looked like Olivia's.
Not entirely.
His jacket hung over the kitchen chair.
One of his mugs sat beside hers on the counter.
The crib box leaned against the nursery wall.
A grocery list rested beneath the fruit bowl in two different handwritings.
His.
Hers.
Everywhere she looked there was evidence of him.
