After the intensity of the day, a strange, uneasy quiet settled between them—less awkward than it was heavy, the silence of two people trying to process too much, too fast.
Sasha had turned on the television for Ross before heading to the bathroom, hoping the noise would fill the stillness.
She needed space. Ti. In the bath, she sat subrged beneath the steaming water, the soft scent of lavender soap curling into the air.
She closed her eyes, trying to release the tension still coiled tight in her shoulders.
Her mind replayed everything—Wesley's voice, the gunshots, Ross's calm, the violence that followed, and the way he'd held her afterward like she was sothing fragile.
By the ti she stepped out, wrapped in a thick robe with her hair damp and clinging softly to her neck, the clock read just shy of 8 p.m.
She padded softly into the main room, expecting to find Ross still lounging on the couch, maybe mindlessly flipping through the channels. But instead, she stopped short.
He wasn't on the couch.
The TV was still playing, but Ross wasn't watching.
He was in the kitchen—moving with unexpected grace between the stove and the countertop, like he'd done this a hundred tis before.
He had his sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and was taste-testing sothing from a wooden spoon.
Sasha blinked, taken aback.
The table was already set, not hastily or carelessly, but with a surprising level of attention. Plates arranged with purpose.
Steam rising from silver serving dishes. Napkins. Cutlery. Wineglasses. The scent of garlic, herbs, and sothing buttery and rich lingered in the air.
It didn't just look good—it looked amazing. Like sothing out of a fine dining spread.
She walked forward slowly, her brows lifting. "Where did you get all this?"
Ross glanced over his shoulder at her, a flicker of amusent in his eyes.
"It's nothing. There's nothing money can't buy—or make rush delivery for, if you know where to look."
He turned back to the stove, swirling the contents of a small pan with practiced ease. "There's a 24/7 gourt grocery three blocks away. Paid soone to do a quick run. Wasn't going to let you eat instant noodles on a night like this."
Sasha stepped closer, still a little stunned. "You… cooked all this?"
Ross gave a small shrug. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
She didn't reply right away, her gaze shifting from the dishes to him.
He looked completely at ease in the space, as if the events from earlier had already faded into distant mory.
There was no sign of the man who had just broken another's face hours ago.
Only this calm, collected, oddly dostic version of Ross—his expression relaxed, movents smooth and unhurried.
"You should go change," he said gently, without even glancing back at her. "Dinner will be ready in five."
He didn't even spare her a second look—even as she stood there in nothing but her robe, skin still damp, the curve of her legs bare beneath the hem.
Most n would have stared. Ross didn't.
And sohow, that made her feel even more exposed.
Sasha lingered for a mont longer, watching him.
Sothing about it was disarming. He wasn't trying to impress her.
He wasn't angling for gratitude or praise. He was just… taking care of her. Quietly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her heart squeezed unexpectedly.
"Alright," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'll go get dressed."
And as she turned and disappeared into her bedroom, she realized sothing unsettling.
She didn't want Ross to leave anymore.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Maybe… not for a while.
They ate slowly, enjoying each other's company.
The tension that had hung between them earlier gradually lted away with every shared laugh, every story exchanged across the candlelit table.
For a while, it felt like the world outside didn't exist—no gunshots, no chaos, no lingering fear. Just two people, sitting close, talking like old friends who had sohow wandered into sothing deeper.
By the ti they finished their al, it was nearing ten o'clock. The plates were mostly cleared, the wineglasses half-full, and the room was comfortably quiet.
Sasha let out a soft yawn and leaned back in her chair, the warmth of the food and the emotional toll of the day settling heavily on her.
The adrenaline from earlier had completely worn off, leaving her feeling physically drained, yet strangely content.
Ross noticed and stood up, stretching slightly. "Looks like it's ti for bed," he said, his voice gentle. "Just point to the guest room—I'll find my way. You go rest, Sasha. You've had a hell of a day."
But Sasha didn't move.
Instead, she looked up at him, and sothing playful flickered in her eyes.
A slow smile tugged at her lips—a smile that didn't match the exhaustion, but sothing else entirely.
"Let's scratch that," she said, her voice low and teasing. "I have a better idea."
Ross raised an eyebrow, curious. "Oh?"
Without answering, Sasha stood and walked over to him.
That sa smile—mischievous, warm, and a little daring—decorated her face as she reached for his hand.
"Co with ," she said simply.
Ross didn't resist. He let her take his hand, and she led him down the short hallway to her bedroom.
The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the walls. The bed sat waiting—soft sheets, fluffed pillows, the scent of lavender still lingering faintly in the air.
They stood at the foot of it for a mont, facing each other in silence.
No words were needed.
Sasha stepped closer, her hands brushing gently against his chest. Her gaze was steady, inviting.
She wasn't uncertain, and she wasn't rushing either. This wasn't about gratitude or adrenaline or needing to feel sothing after nearly losing everything. This was a choice.
And Ross understood.
Anything could happen from here on out.
And neither of them seed in the mood to stop it.
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