The drive home was quiet in the way that felt full rather than empty.
Gabriel drove. Ethan sat in the passenger seat with his head tipped against the window, watching the winter lights smear past. Neither of them reached for the radio.
The heater hummed. Every so often Gabriel's hand left the gear shift and rested briefly on Ethan's knee before returning to the wheel.
At a red light Gabriel asked, "Have you eaten anything today?"
"Coffee."
"That isn't food."
"It was very committed coffee."
Gabriel's mouth tipped. "I'll make something when we get in."
Ethan didn't argue.
The apartment smelled the way it always did when they had been gone too long — faint coffee, clean laundry, the particular quiet of a place that waited for them. Ethan dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.
Gabriel hung both their coats. For a moment they simply stood in the hallway, the day settling around their shoulders like a heavy coat neither of them was ready to shrug off yet.
