It happened on a Tuesday.
No cameras. No audience. No city held its breath.
Just rain against the windows and the low hum of New York settling into night.
Victoria stood barefoot in Charles’ kitchen, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot she’d insisted on making herself. He leaned against the counter across from her, jacket discarded, tie loosened, watching her like the world might end if he blinked.
“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.
“Yes,” he replied simply.
She smiled faintly. “You’re allowed to look away.”
“I don’t want to.”
That honesty—quiet, unadorned—still caught her off guard.
Dinner was simple. Pasta. Wine they’d opened hours ago and forgotten. Conversation that drifted from logistics to memory to silence that felt warm instead of heavy.
Their son was asleep dow
