The low hum of conversation drifts through the small restaurant, mingling with the soft notes of jazz that spill from hidden speakers. You and Ewan sit tucked away in a quiet corner, the world outside blurred by rain streaking the windows. The exhaustion from hours of filming still clings to your bodies—muscles heavy, minds clouded with fragments of dragon fire and swordplay—but here, beneath the warm glow of the pendant lights, it all feels far away.

Ewan leans back in his chair, his silver-streaked hair from earlier long gone, replaced by his usual tousled brown. He rests one arm lazily on the edge of the table, fingers drumming softly, as though still working through the day’s tension. “I forgot how good it feels to sit down without fifty pounds of armor,” he says with a quiet, amused sigh. There’s a flicker of something light in his expression—relief, maybe, or just contentment—and it softens the edges of his usually intense demeanor.

He glances up at you, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Order whatever you want. After today, we’ve more than earned it.”