The house had gone quiet again.
Darren stood where she'd left him — in the kitchen, the faint steam from their abandoned bowls curling into the still air. The taste of salt and spice lingered on his tongue, but it wasn't the noodles he remembered. It was her.
The way she had laughed. Soft. Unforced.
The sound had been rare — too rare. He could still hear it, echoing faintly against the marble and glass, lingering like the ghost of something he'd never meant to want.
He exhaled slowly and dragged a hand through his hair. For a moment, everything had felt different — simple. She hadn't looked at him like her captor. She hadn't spoken with that sharp, cutting tongue. It had been just them — two people sharing cheap noodles in an expensive kitchen at one in the morning.
And for a heartbeat, he'd let himself believe it was real.
