Chapter 54: One Glass, No Disguises
The chair scraped quietly back under the table. Clara opened the door without a word. She wore socks, a loose grey sweater, and her hair was tied back as if she had meant to undo it earlier but forgot. No makeup. No smile either—just a look, and then she stepped aside.
Demien stepped in. He hadn’t taken off his shoes yet. She glanced down but didn’t say anything.
The apartment smelled of garlic and rosemary, maybe onion. Light jazz played from a half-covered speaker near the bookshelf. A record skipped once, then caught itself.
He held out the bottle. "Red," he said. She took it from his hand, turned it over once, then walked past him toward the kitchen.
"Sit," she said. He didn’t—at least not right away. He just stood, scanning the room. Everything felt soft: the light, the walls, even the edges of the furniture looked like they could bend.
When he finally sat, it was at the island, not the table. Two plates were already set, one fork beside each, but no napkins. Steam still curled from the pan on the stove.
She poured the wine but didn’t lift her glass. He followed suit. They ate the first few bites in silence. She didn’t ask if it was good, and he didn’t say. The food was warm, fresh, and unhurried.
Clara spoke without lifting her eyes from her plate. "Where’d you grow up?"
Demien glanced over. She wasn’t asking to pry—just to create space. "Montreuil. Rue des Blés."
She chewed once, then again. "Paris side?"
He nodded. She leaned her elbow on the counter.