The flat was darker than usual when Ina came in, only the kitchen light on. Nathan had left it that way on purpose. It made the day feel shorter when it ended.

  She set her bag down by the door and toed her shoes off without looking. Her shoulders dropped a fraction once they were off, the way they always did. The coat followed, hung neatly even though no one would have noticed if it hadn’t been.

  Nathan glanced up from the table. He had paperwork spread out in front of him, not because it needed to be done tonight, but because it helped him transition. He looked at her face first, then her hands.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  She nodded once. “Later than I meant to be.”

  He pushed the papers aside and stood. They met in the narrow space between the counter and the table, close enough that neither of them had to reach. She leaned into him without ceremony, forehead brushing his collarbone. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rested his chin lightly against her hair.

  They stayed like that for a few seconds. Long enough to breathe.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “I made soup.”

  “That counts,” she said, muffled.

  He pulled back just enough to look at her properly. There was a faint crease between her brows, the one that showed up when she’d been holding something in all day. He touched it with his thumb until it smoothed.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said.

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  “I know.”

  She stepped away first, heading toward the kitchen, already loosening the pins in her hair. One came free and landed on the counter with a soft tick. Nathan watched her movements, efficient even when tired, as if still being observed.

  He ladled soup into two bowls and slid one toward her. She wrapped her hands around it, inhaling.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be early,” she said, almost as an aside.

  He nodded. “Site?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big one?”

  She considered the question, then shrugged. “Routine. Just… important.”

  That was as far as she went. He didn’t ask what, and she didn’t elaborate. There was a shared understanding that details could wait for daylight, if they mattered at all.

  They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. The city outside hummed faintly through the glass, traffic and voices blending into something almost peaceful.

  Nathan broke the quiet first.

  “I can drive you,” he said. “If you want.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’ve got your own early morning.”

  “I can make it work.”

  “I know.” She reached across the table and squeezed his fingers. “But you don’t have to.”

  He squeezed back, once.

  When they finished eating, he carried the bowls to the sink. Ina leaned against the counter, watching him, her eyes softer now. The day was loosening its grip.

  “You’re thinking,” he said.

  She smiled again, this time a little wry. “Always.”

  “About tomorrow?”

  “About everything that piles up when tomorrow exists,” she said. Then, seeing his expression, she shook her head. “Nothing bad. Just… weight.”

  He dried his hands and came to stand in front of her. He rested his forehead against hers.

  “We’re good at weight,” he said. “You and I.”

  She laughed quietly. “We are,” she agreed. “Though sometimes I think we forget to set it down.”

  “Then we remind each other.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing him in. The familiar scent grounded her more than any argument ever could.

  “Promise me something,” she said.

  “Anything,” he replied, without hesitation.

  “If I come home tomorrow and forget to say how tired I am,” she said, “you’ll notice anyway.”

  He smiled. “I already do.”

  That earned him a small, genuine smile in return.

  They moved toward the bedroom together, lights clicking off behind them one by one. Ina paused at the window, looking out at the city for a moment longer. Nathan waited without prompting.

  “Tomorrow,” she said softly, as if testing the word.

  “Tomorrow,” he echoed.

  She turned back to him, satisfied, and took his hand.

  The door closed behind them.