The studio was quiet by the time Ruth lowered herself to the floor.
Not silent—never that—but settled. The mirrors reflected a muted evening, the studio lights easing into a calm, steady warmth. Outside the windows, evening slid into place, the city easing down from its day. She lay on her back for a moment, arms loose at her sides, letting her breath find a slower shape.
Then she moved.
Stretching came naturally, the way it always did after rehearsal. Calves first, then hamstrings, her spine easing open inch by inch. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Her body knew how to let go, even when her mind lagged behind.
She held a stretch longer than necessary, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Time passed without announcing itself. The room cooled. The low murmur of the building settled around her where the music had once played.
Her phone rested on the floor a short distance away.
She shifted, rolled onto her side, and finished the last sequence with care—controlled, deliberate, the way she'd been trained. When she finally sat up, a dull pulse lingered in her muscles. It should have been enough.
She reached for her phone.
*What do you want for dinner?*
The message went out clean and simple. No punctuation to soften it. No emoji to ask for reassurance. She set the phone face-down and stood, gathering her bag, her jacket, her shoes. When she locked the studio door behind her, the screen was still dark.
Outside, a chill had settled in. She walked to the bus stop, shoulders loosening as the rhythm of the street replaced the stillness she'd left behind. The ride home passed the way it always did—familiar stops, familiar faces, motion carrying her without demanding anything in return.
She stepped off the bus and checked her phone.
Nothing.
At home, she set her bag down and moved through the apartment on habit alone. Lights on. Windows cracked. She filled a glass with water, drank it standing at the counter, then checked the phone again.
Still nothing.
She set it aside and leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely across her chest. Her expression stayed calm. Practiced. The irritation sat beneath that calm, faint but persistent, like a muscle refusing to relax.
The phone rang.
Leviticus's name filled the screen.
—
The phone rang while Ruth was still standing at the sink.
She watched it vibrate against the counter, the screen lighting up the underside of her wrist. Let it ring once. Twice. Then she picked it up.
"Hello."
"Hey, babe."Leviticus's voice came through smooth, settled, like nothing had been interrupted. "Sorry I missed your calls. Just seeing them now."
She leaned her hip into the counter. Crossed her ankle over the other.
"Mm," she said lightly. "I thought maybe my phone was the problem."
A soft breath on his end. Almost a smile.
"No," he said. "That one's on me. Therapy ran long. I forgot to take my phone off DND after."
"Oh." A pause, measured. "That explains it."
"It does," he said easily. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Ruth replied. "I just wasn't sure whether to start dinner or wait. So I waited."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know," she said quickly. "I wanted to."
—
The room Leviticus was in was dim, curtains half-drawn, still close from recent use. Bathsheba lay stretched across the bed beside him, her head resting against his chest, hair loose and dark against his skin. One of her fingers traced idle lines along his ribs, slow, absent-minded.
He shifted slightly, adjusting his arm around her as he listened.
"What were you thinking of making?" he asked Ruth.
"Pasta," she said. "If that's okay."
"That's perfect," he said. "Everything you make is."
Bathsheba's finger paused. Then resumed, slower this time.
"You're still downtown?" Ruth asked.
"Just pulling out," he said. "I'll be home soon."
"Okay," she said. "Drive safe."
"Always do." His voice dipped. "See you in a bit, beautiful."
The call ended.Bathsheba lifted her head just enough to look at him. Her mouth curved, amused, quiet. He glanced down at her and slid his hand up, fingers closing gently but firmly at her jaw—enough pressure to still her, to keep the moment contained. She huffed a soft laugh through her nose and settled back against him, obedient, satisfied.
—
Ruth slipped her jacket on and stepped back out into the evening.
The evening had cooled. Streetlights clicked on in sequence, laying bands of light along the pavement. She headed to the store—pasta, sauce, vegetables, a small bottle of wine she didn't need but liked to have on hand.
By the time she reached the apartment again, the sky had darkened fully.
Inside, she moved through the kitchen on muscle memory alone. Water boiling. Sauce warming. Music low in the background, something familiar. She checked her phone once, then set it face-down and focused on the food.
When the engine pulled up outside, she knew it without looking.
A knock. Then keys. The door opening.
Leviticus stepped in and crossed the threshold.
"Hey," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Smells incredible."
"You're right on time," she said, smiling as she handed him a plate.
Dinner passed easily. He asked about her rehearsal. She asked about therapy. He gave her just enough—nothing heavy, nothing that lingered. When tomorrow came up, his tone shifted, subtle but clear.
"I'll need to head to the House of Fellowship early," he said. "Junior masters are expected to be present."
She nodded. "I'll have something laid out for you."
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he said, and meant it in the way that sounded sincere.
Later, when the dishes were done, she stretched once and said, "I'm going to shower."
"Go ahead," he replied, already settling back.
The water started a minute later.
Steam bloomed quickly, fogging the glass until her shape became a soft silhouette—shoulders, arms lifting, head tipped back beneath the spray. The sound of water filled the apartment, steady and enclosing.
Leviticus stood and moved toward the bathroom without rushing.
When he stepped inside, heat wrapped around him immediately. She turned at the sound of the door, surprised, then relaxed when she saw him. Water traced down her neck, her shoulders, disappearing into steam.
He stepped close, close enough that she could feel him without touching yet.
"Hi," he murmured near her ear.
Her breath caught. She tilted her head just slightly, giving him space. His hands found her waist, warm, grounding. The world narrowed to skin, to heat, to the quiet intimacy of being held without urgency.
His mouth brushed her neck. Her fingers slid up his arms. The glass rattled faintly as water continued to run, steam thickening until the room felt sealed off from everything else.
She turned fully toward him. Their foreheads touched.
Then their mouths met.