The quiet between them wasn't awkward.
It was clean.
Intentional.
They ate without speaking, the only sound the faint clink of utensils and the low hum of ambient light from the kitchen panels above. The food was hot. Balanced. Perfectly timed for recovery.
Damien's fork moved with easy rhythm. He wasn't rushing. Just eating. Refueling. Every bite tasted sharper than usual—flavor sitting right on the tongue, nerves alive and precise.
'Recovery speed's improving,' he thought, chewing. 'System's pushing harder now. Must be close.'
He glanced across the table.
Elysia sat perfectly straight, not a single twitch out of place. Her robe still cinched tight. Posture military. Mask unbroken. But he saw it—in the subtle flush in her neck, the extra second she took between bites. That lingering pulse behind her stillness.
She was satisfied.
And still not.
