[ there's not much to say; maybe right now what they both would rather sink into is their quiet familiarity. elena knows that's it. for her, that's it. they talk little making the soup, working together with an ease elena knows has never been truly disturbed.
sometimes her eyes linger on him a second more than they should when he's dipping his head to taste the broth, leaning over to grab a utensil. she should be in bed. she's not. her gaze is steady, studying, not so much full of longing or hope as it is searching and scrutinizing. (she's been sad, alone, angry and hurt. she loves him, and that hasn't gone away.)
when he pours a bowl for her, her gaze lingers on him, down his neck. it doesn't escape her notice he sets it aside for her, gives her the option. she blinks at her soup on the counter for a half-moment, then picks it up as if she's doing something either brave or inconsequential - and slides in next to him.
she leans forward to grab and move the salt and pepper between them. ]