It was the kind of comfort that didn't have to raise its voice or dress itself up to be noticed—the kind that didn't try to be remembered but still stayed with you long after the moment passed.
Everly rose first, collecting the empty plates with careful hands, moving with the kind of gentleness that made even the clink of ceramic sound like a whisper.
It wasn't just neatness but respect for the space they'd made here. Evelyn followed a beat later, vanishing into the kitchen with a soft sweep of fabric and the same quiet rhythm as if any sudden motion might shatter the stillness that had taken root.
Ethan didn't move.
He stayed where he was, hands resting loosely on the edge of the table, eyes unfocused, half-watching the flicker of the candles.
The wax had begun to drip unevenly, curling down the side of the glass holder and forming a small, sticky pool on the wood.
There was no urgency in him.
Just stillness.
