The evening had deepened into night. The festival lights still glowed in the distance, but the crowds had thinned, the music softened. Nero stood outside Khione's dorm, the door closed before him. He had knocked once, and she had opened it without a word.
Her room was, neat, exactly as always with the minimum furnitures.
"You came," she said.
"I came."
He stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him.
"I haven't eaten," she said finally.
"Let's eat then, I can't wait to eat your cooking,babe."
She moved to the small kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. Leftover rice, vegetables, a few eggs. She set to work, her movements efficient, practiced. Nero watched from the doorway. The soft light of the stove illuminated her profile, the curve of her cheek, the fall of her hair.
He did not offer to help. He knew she needed to do this—to create something, to control something, to feel useful after a day of pushing against impossible limits.
