This was not appropriate. She knew it was not appropriate. She'd spent the afternoon composing arguments for why it was appropriate, building a case she didn't believe. Elise was isolated and struggling. She needed support. Sienna was the person who understood the injury experience from the inside, and providing emotional care was part of a sports physician's remit. These were all true things. They were also all excuses, and Sienna was too honest with herself to pretend otherwise.
She wanted to see Elise. She wanted to sit across from her and watch how her eyes crinkled when she laughed and listen to her dry, clipped humour and feel the pull of her even when she was sad. That was the real reason. Everything else was scaffolding.
She walked. She could have driven, but the walk was short and the evening was mild and she needed the time to compose herself. The pavement was still warm from the day's sun and the salt air came in from the ocean in slow, steady breaths. She passed Lavender's, where the lights were on and Lavender herself was wiping down the counter through the window, and the tree-lined street where she and Elise had walked yesterday, and the bench overlooking the water where the old couple sat with their dog. The bench was empty now. The water was dark.
Elise's building was a cream-painted stucco apartment block with iron balconies and eucalyptus trees flanking the entrance. Sienna had been here once before, the night of the injury, when she'd driven Elise home from the hospital and made scrambled eggs in her kitchen. That had been professional kindness. This was not that. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, the brown paper bag tucked against her ribs, and knocked.
Elise opened the door and the first thing Sienna noticed was that the apartment behind her was lit with candles.
Not many. A few on the coffee table, a couple on the kitchen counter, one on the windowsill. But they were there, casting alow, amber glow that turned the open-plan living space into a space softer and warmer than the overhead lights would have. The framed Valkyries jersey on the wall caught the candlelight. The bookshelf of sports biographies and crime novels was in shadow. The kitchen smelled of coffee and vanilla and the close, lived-in smell of a space someone had taken time to prepare.
"Hey," Elise said. She was in a loose t-shirt and joggers, her dark hair down around her shoulders, which Sienna had never seen before. The sling was off. Her left arm hung at her side, the shoulder moving with a careful stiffness that said she was testing the range but not pushing it.
"Hey." Sienna held up the bag. "I got sushi, edamame, gyoza, and miso. And extra wasabi because you strike me as someone who eats too much wasabi."
Elise crossed her arms with her good hand tucked under the injured one. "I eat exactly the right amount of wasabi."
"That's what everyone who eats too much wasabi says."
Elise grinned and stepped aside. Sienna walked into the apartment and set the food on the kitchen counter, and the candles were everywhere. Soft and low, creating a light that blurred edges and made everything look closer than it was.
It looked romantic. It looked like a date.
Sienna's pulse kicked. She told herself it was just candles. People lit candles. It was a normal thing to do. It didn't mean anything. Elise probably lit candles every evening. She probably bought scented candles in bulk and had opinions about wick size and wax type.
Or she'd lit them for Sienna.
She shook the thought off and focused on a task she could control. She started unpacking the food. The containers were neatly labelled, because the woman at the Japanese place was meticulous, and Sienna arranged them on the counter in the order she always arranged things: sushi first, then the hotdishes, then the sides. She was halfway through the arrangement when she caught herself colour-coding the soy sauce packets and stopped.
"You're organising the takeaway," Elise said. She was leaning against the counter beside her, hip cocked, watching with unconcealed amusement. The candlelight caught the green of her eyes and turned them amber at the edges.
"I'm arranging it efficiently."
Elise peered over her shoulder. "You've put the soy sauce in size order."
Sienna looked down. She had, in fact, put the soy sauce packets in size order, smallest to largest, labels facing the same direction. She swept them into a pile with as much dignity as she could muster. "Force of habit."
"Is this what your fridge looks like? Everything labelled and facing forward?"
"My fridge has oat milk and one container of leftovers I haven't identified yet. There's nothing to organise."
Elise pressed a hand to her chest. "That's the saddest fridge I've ever heard of."
Sienna straightened and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's functional."
"It's a cry for help, Sienna."
They ate at the kitchen table, which was small and round and positioned beneath a window that looked out onto the trees outside. The candle on the table was between them, the flame throwing shifting shadows across Elise's face. The food was good. The edamame was perfectly salted and the gyoza were crispy on the bottom, and Sienna ate slowly and watched Elise navigate sushi with one functional hand and a pair of chopsticks and a determination that was both impressive and slightly dangerous.
"If you drop that in the soy sauce, I'm not fishing it out," Sienna said.
"I haven't dropped a single piece."
Sienna raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the napkin in Elise's lap. "You dropped one in your lap two minutes ago."
"That was a strategic relocation."
Sienna laughed. The sound came easily, as it always did with Elise, and she let herself enjoy it. The kitchen felt small and private in the candlelight, separate from everything outside. Through the window, the trees were dark silhouettes against the evening sky, and the sounds of the street were muffled to a low hum.