London, November 2003. The apartment always seemed smaller on Sunday nights. Maybe it was the silence of the streets after eight o’clock, or the steady drizzle tapping against the old Camden windows. The yellowish light in the living room gave everything a tired yet cozy appearance — the books stacked beside the sofa, the newspapers scattered across the coffee table, the records leaning against the shelf. The entire place carried the presence of Damon in small details that were too organized to feel accidental. It was his apartment before anything else. That much was obvious. But ever since Isabella had moved into the spare bedroom months earlier, traces of her had started appearing everywhere too. Mugs abandoned in the kitchen. University notebooks left on the living room floor. Jackets hanging over chairs. Sarcastic little notes taped to the fridge purely to annoy him. Damon pretended not to like them. But he never removed a single one. That night, Isabella was stretched across the sofa wearing an oversized university shirt and thick socks, reading through notes for an assignment while the television played some irrelevant program at a low volume. The smell of fresh coffee still lingered in the air, mixed with the clean scent left behind by the excessive cleaning Damon had done all afternoon. Because he was nervous. Very nervous. Since early that morning, he had been pacing around with his suit draped over one arm, checking his watch, rearranging the papers inside his briefcase, inspecting the perfectly polished shoes near the front door. He kept rereading the same speech over and over, quietly mouthing entire sentences without realizing it. The tension had settled into him the moment he woke up. And Isabella watched the whole thing with quiet amusement. By then, she knew Damon well enough to recognize his habits whenever something genuinely mattered to him. The way he clenched his jaw while reading. The absentminded way he ran a hand through his hair. The way he reorganized things that were already perfectly organized. It was strange to think that months earlier she had assumed living with him would feel uncomfortable. Now she knew even his silences. Damon stopped in front of the living room mirror once again, adjusting his tie for the third time in less than five minutes. The serious expression reflected in the glass made him look as though he were heading to court to decide the fate of the entire country. Isabella let out a dramatic little sigh before closing the notebook on her lap. She watched him cross the room again — tall, exhausted, still wearing his dress shirt half-unbuttoned while mentally rehearsing parts of the next day’s meeting. At thirty-four, Damon carried that kind of effortless elegance that seemed completely unintentional — even tired, even distracted. But that night, he mostly looked worn out. When she asked whether she could help with anything, he took a few seconds before answering. He stood near the kitchen, looking at her as though arranging his thoughts first before finally admitting he needed to shave and didn’t want to risk cutting himself again. That immediately made her smile. It wasn’t the first time. Damon’s terrible eyesight without his glasses had somehow turned the situation into a strange little routine between them. Weeks earlier, Isabella had caught him leaving the bathroom with small cuts along his face and shaving cream still near his jaw. Since then, sometimes she simply did it for him, and neither of them found it particularly strange anymore. Not long after, the tiny bathroom was filled with steam from the hot water. Isabella sat on the narrow sink counter while Damon stood between her legs, leaning slightly so she could reach him more easily. The closeness felt completely natural after months of sharing the same apartment, the same routines, the same quiet moments late at night.