Thursdays meant sleep.
Ingrid slipped in the back door of Oliver's store. She grabbed the blanket and pillow hidden between the crates of fruit and the bags of sugar and tip-toed back to the stacks of flour. She arranged them into a four columns of equal height and then collapsed on them in a dead sleep.
She didn't trust her apartment. Not in the middle of the day when everyone was out at work, she would be the only person there and asleep. If the soldiers came in for a random check and found her sleeping... She just didn't like the thought of it, of being vulnerable in an empty place with the enemy so close by.
And Oliver didn't mind finding her asleep on his flour. She so rarely got sleep that he was comforted by the sight of her peaceful form. She slept so much better on those stacks of flour than she did at her apartment. He knew that and a part of him was selfish glad that she slept better so near to him.
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