The apartment was warm when you stepped inside, warmer than it had been that morning. It smelled like butter and garlic and the faint sweetness of onions slowly caramelizing on the stove. You closed the door behind you softly, as though you might break the spell if you were too loud. Shoes off first, bag dropped on the small entry table, keys in the dish. The usual rituals of home.

Arthur was in the kitchen. You could see him from the doorway, standing with his back half-turned, sleeves rolled to the elbow and a dish towel slung over one shoulder. The light above the stove cast everything in a kind of muted amber. He was stirring something in a heavy cast-iron pan, slow and deliberate, like the world wasn’t rushing by just outside.

He looked up when he heard you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and tired from the day. His eyes flickered up to yours for only a moment before returning to the pan. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

You watched the way his broad shoulders shifted under the worn cotton of his shirt, the small movements of his hands as he worked. Arthur Morgan didn’t move quickly if he didn’t have to. There was a steadiness to him that settled into every space he was in, a quiet gravity that made the room feel different the second you walked through the door.

He turned off the stove and set the spoon aside. “How was your day?”

You didn’t answer right away, and he didn’t press. He crossed the kitchen to retrieve two plates from the cabinet, the floor creaking softly under his boots. The food smelled even better up close—rich and earthy, like something you could live on for days if you had to. He portioned it out with care and handed you your plate without looking up, brushing his knuckles against yours for half a second longer than necessary.

“Sit,” he murmured. “You look worn out.”

You sat at the small table by the window, the city buzzing faintly far below. Arthur set your plate in front of you and took the seat opposite, leaning his forearms on the table. He studied you quietly for a moment, his thumb tapping idly against the edge of the plate.

“You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t want to,” he said at last. His voice was soft enough that you almost missed it under the hum of the refrigerator.