They arrived three minutes after they meant to. Someone hurried past them in the hallway, murmuring a distracted apology without looking up. Warm air drifted from the kitchen, fragrant with something slow-cooked and faintly spiced. She handed the wine to their host without waiting for him to take her coat; her sleeve caught lightly on his fingers before she stepped ahead.
A picture frame near the door hung a fraction off-centre. He straightened it. Beneath it, the coat hooks didn’t match—one tilting slightly. Next to the hooks sat a narrow shoe rack, one pair angled inward, another outward. He noticed all of it but corrected nothing.
“Come in, you two—you’ve missed the first scandal of the night,” the host said.
He hung their coats. As he caught up, she paused—brief, almost imperceptible—then stepped forward again.
The dining table glowed under soft light. One chair sat angled wrong. He nudged it back. She saw him adjust it, looked away, and smoothed her sleeve twice. The second motion slowed midway, her fingers catching on the fabric before stilling.
“You’re quiet tonight,” someone said.
“Just tired,” she replied. Her fingers tightened around her glass, held, then released.
“Long day,” he added, a breath late.
A pause opened—longer than the moment allowed. A fork clattered. Someone attempted a conversational restart—’So anyway…’—but the thread fell flat. She adjusted a placemat that wasn’t out of place. A muscle in his jaw worked once before he looked down. Her mouth changed, almost a correction, then closed.
He reached for the serving spoon as she did. Their fingers brushed—barely—and he withdrew too quickly. She served herself without looking over. His breath shortened once, then steadied.
She poured wine into his glass, above his usual line. He thanked her quietly. He aligned his napkin. She noticed, rotating her glass a measured degree. Her ring clicked once against the stem.
A joke rose at the far end of the table. Her laugh came bright. He smiled a second after she did. His teeth clicked.
“Can we not do this here?” she murmured.
“I’m not doing anything.” She blinked. The fork beside her plate shifted under her thumb.
Cutlery chimed. Someone encouraged seconds.
The overhead light dimmed, then brightened. He looked up too quickly. She pulled her hands inward, ring tapping again—three small taps.
He scraped his spoon too loudly. She glanced over, then lowered her eyes before he could meet them. She lifted her water; the rim grazed her ring again. She inhaled to speak but released the breath unshaped, grounding her palm against the tablecloth.
“You two always keep us grounded,” someone said.
He opened his mouth, but she spoke first. “He’s just tired.”
His jaw tightened—small, but enough that she saw it before he hid it. She shifted her chair an inch. He stiffened, then stilled his hands to hide it.
They reached for their glasses at the same moment. She caught the wrong one—the host’s—then set it back.
Dessert arrived—warm, fragrant. As the dish landed, the overhead light flickered again. He looked toward her at the exact moment she turned away. Her fingers tapped once under the table.
He reached for the serving dish; she did too. She withdrew first this time.
When they stood to leave, she stepped aside for someone passing. He stepped back. Her mouth opened. The person passed between them, and she closed it.
Outside, the cold surprised them. Her breath rose in quick clouds. His came slower, heavier. Their steps aligned, drifted, aligned again. A passing car washed them briefly in light before letting the dark fold sharply behind it. He blinked.
She tightened her scarf. He almost reached to straighten it, but stopped before she could notice, fingers folding back into his palm.
“They really do get dramatic about dessert,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Her jaw tightened, then softened. A raised bit of pavement nudged her sleeve against his arm. She didn’t move away.
“I’m sorry if I made things awkward,” he said.
She inhaled too sharply. “You didn’t.” Her hand lifted toward his arm, then folded back into her palm before the gesture completed.
She paused on the step, one foot inside the porch light, one still in the dark.
“I didn’t want to fight today,” she said.
He didn’t answer at once. His breath tightened, then released. “I didn’t either.”
Inside, she set her bag down gently. He placed the keys in the bowl a shade too hard—quiet, but not quite nothing. The picture frame he’d straightened earlier sat off-centre again. He left it.
Their shoes, usually side by side, angled away from one another. He saw the misalignment. Didn’t correct it.