Willow came home later than Zane expected.
Not late enough to raise concern. Late enough to register.
The penthouse was already dimmed when she stepped inside, the lighting lowered to evening mode, the city beyond the glass softened into scattered gold and shadow. Zana was asleep, the monitor glowing quietly on the counter, her breathing steady and undisturbed. The day had settled without ceremony.
Zane was in the kitchen.
Not pacing. Not waiting by the door. Simply there, sleeves rolled, a pan warming on the stove, the quiet competence of someone reclaiming a domestic rhythm he had once delegated without thought. He had changed out of his jacket. He had set the table. He had cooked something simple and careful, the kind of meal chosen for recovery and consideration rather than display.
He looked up when he heard her.
Their eyes met.
No questions yet.
