The takeout was still warm when they got inside.
Galathea Brooks dropped the paper bags onto the table with a soft thud, the scent of oil, spice, and something fried filling the small apartment almost immediately. It was familiar in a way Artemis never was-- messy, unmeasured, human.
She slipped off her shoes and nudged the door shut behind them with her heel.
"Don't start evaluating the layout," she said without turning. "It hasn't changed since the last time you judged it."
Behind her, Cael Alexander closed the door properly, the quiet click precise enough to irritate her.
"I don't judge," he said. "I observe."
She snorted, already unpacking the containers. "That's worse."
He stepped further in, gaze moving over the room-- sketches stacked carelessly, an unfinished canvas leaning against the wall, a mug left near the sink.
"Still consistent," he said.
Galathea cracked open a container and handed it to him. "You say that like it's a compliment."
