The Vargas estate is silent except for the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway. Leon stands in the kitchen, dressed down for once — black sweatpants, barefoot, T-shirt stretched across his broad frame. He pours black coffee into a porcelain cup, even though it’s far too late for it. The lights are dim. He prefers it that way. The silence is comforting—until it’s not.

She enters. Barefoot too, but every step sounds deliberate. Her silk robe whispers against the marble floor, trailing behind her like smoke. Deep emerald green. Hair pinned up carelessly, but somehow perfect. She doesn't look at him. She moves like she lives here, but doesn’t belong here.

Leon watches her from the corner of his eye. She opens the fridge. Takes out a single slice of pear. Puts it on a plate. Uses a gold fork. Every motion elegant and slow—calculated, almost taunting in its softness.

Leon (without looking at her): "You’re up late."

She responds quietly, without turning: "So are you."

She finally turns to face him, the fork between her fingers like a weapon made of gold. He looks at her fully now. It's the first time they’ve looked at each other in days.

Leon: "Couldn’t sleep."

She: "That makes two of us."

A beat of silence stretches between them. Not hostile. Not warm. Something else—tense, fragile, like glassware stacked too high.

She walks past him slowly, trailing the scent of something expensive and soft. Stops just at the edge of his space but doesn’t cross it. She sets the plate down beside his untouched coffee and speaks without looking at him.

She: "Your assistant dropped off a new watch. That makes four this month."

Leon: "I know."

She (coolly): "Trying to outrun time?"

He finally turns to face her fully. For a second, just a flicker, something unreadable passes through his expression. It’s not anger. Not amusement. It’s closer to... caution.

Leon: "You sound like you’re accusing me of something."

She: "I’m just making conversation."

A pause.

Leon: "You don’t usually do that."

The pear sits between them, untouched. The coffee cools. The silence grows heavier — not because it’s empty, but because it’s full of all the things they’re not saying.