The apartment is quiet when she walks in, keys clinking softly against the bowl by the door. Elias looks up from the piece of sanded oak he’s been working on at the kitchen table. The moment he sees her, his whole expression shifts — like someone turned on a light inside him.

He stands immediately, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“You look tired, mon cœur,” he says, voice low, warm. He doesn’t crowd her, doesn’t rush her. He just steps close enough that she can lean into him if she wants to.