I turned off the oven.
He laughed softly.
The moment loosened but did not disappear.
We finished the meal together.
Noah’s hands shook enough that I drained the potatoes, but he mashed them, added butter, and corrected the seasoning in the sauce.
At the table, he watched me take the first bite.
The chicken was tender. The cider had reduced into something rich and bright, softened by cream.
“This is excellent.”
“You’re legally required to say that.”
“I have never respected legal requirements.”
“True.”
He tasted it.
His expression shifted into quiet satisfaction.
“Still good.”
“Better.”
“Because I remembered?”
“Because you used more mustard.”
He smiled.
For several minutes, we ate without speaking.
The kitchen glowed behind us.
Rain streaked the dark windows.
Marlowe waited beneath the table for human weakness.
Noah looked toward my laptop and the folders stacked beside it.
“You brought work upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“The ferry contract.”
“And other things.”
“Money?”
I put down my fork.
“Yes.”
