The faint clatter of plates broke the silence.
Sofia moved quietly in the small kitchen, her hair catching the light every time she turned. The aroma of garlic and olive oil filled the air, blending with the faint hum of night outside.
Adam sat on the sofa, his hands clasped, his thoughts louder than the ticking clock on the wall. He couldn't believe he was here — sitting in her home again, watching her cook as if time had folded in on itself.
She placed two plates on the table — pasta glistening in a light sauce, sprinkled with herbs. Simple. Home-cooked. Hers.
"Sit," she said softly, glancing at him.
He stood and walked toward her, his steps slow, cautious, as though moving too fast would shatter whatever fragile peace had decided to exist between them tonight.
When he sat across from her, the space felt smaller than it should have — intimate, like the world outside no longer existed.
