Damien was sitting at the kitchen table like he lived there.
That was the first thing Seren noticed when he walked through the door. Not the wine, though there was wine, a bottle of something dark that Juno had clearly already sampled based on the glass in his hand. Not the pasta, though the pasta was in a serving bowl on the table and had the apologetic texture of something that had been ready twenty minutes ago.
Damien. At the kitchen table. In their apartment. With his jacket folded over the back of the chair and his sleeves rolled to the forearm and an expression of complete composure that suggested he ate at other people's kitchen tables regularly and found nothing remarkable about it.
Juno was looking at Seren with the specific energy of someone who had been waiting to make eye contact since the moment Seren walked in.
"You're late," Juno said.
"I was at the office."
"I know. Damien told me." Juno gestured at the table. "Sit down. I'll reheat the pasta."
Seren sat.
