The restaurant was quiet in the way places became when they were not trying to be impressive.
There were no dramatic gestures in the décor, no loud music demanding attention, no sense that anyone inside was performing a version of themselves for an audience. It was the kind of place that understood timing. Linen napkins folded neatly. Plates warmed properly. Chairs spaced just far enough apart that conversations stayed where they belonged.
Willow noticed all of that before she noticed how strange it felt to be sitting across from Zane like this.
Not because she was uncomfortable.
Because she was aware.
They had crossed fire together. They had survived things that usually broke people apart or fused them so tightly there was no room left to breathe. But they had never had this. A table. A menu. Time that was not borrowed from crisis or stitched together between emergencies.
They ordered easily.
