Evelyn POV
The apartment was quieter than usual that morning, though not in the cold, empty way silence used to exist inside the Hart mansion where every conversation felt measured and every movement carried invisible rules attached to it, but in a softer way, the kind of quiet that came from comfort, from familiarity, from people slowly learning how to exist around one another without fear of saying the wrong thing.
I woke up to the smell of food.
Not coffee.
Not perfume drifting through polished hallways.
Actual food.
Warm bread. Fried eggs. Something sweet.
For a few seconds, I remained lying in bed staring at the ceiling while the scent drifted through the apartment, and strangely enough, the realization that someone was cooking downstairs pulled a small smile from me before I even opened my eyes fully.
That still felt new.
Dangerously new.
Because I was beginning to get attached to things I once convinced myself I didn't need.
