He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze moving over my face slowly, deliberately, like he’s confirming something he already knows. There’s nothing casual in it. Every second ofhis attention feels placed—intentional—and I stay exactly where I am while he does it, letting him take what he’s looking for without interrupting it.
Two men in dark clothing step out from the background, give him a nod, and whisk my suitcases away. At least these ones arrived.
I glance after them for a second. I don’t ask. He doesn’t explain. Then His hand finds my waist and I stop thinking about it.
My backpack disappears from my hands before I think to adjust my grip, Soren effortlessly hoisting it onto his shoulder, even though this time it’s weighed down with everything I own.
His other hand finds me immediately, first at my wrist, then shifting to my waist as he turns us toward the exit. The contact is light but exact—guiding, not forcing—and I follow without hesitation, my body responding before I decide to move.
The transition from airport to car to his place happens without friction.
There are no decisions to make, no moments where I have to pause and figure out what comes next. I don’t have to think.
By the time we step inside, it doesn’t feel like I’ve arrived somewhere new.
It feels like I’ve resumed something.
The rest of the morning comes with the same ease.
When I return from hanging up some clothing in the spare room closet, there’s coffee waiting, already made—already placed exactly where I would reach for it. I take a sip and register the taste a second later, the detail catching up after the action.
It’s just right.
Not the way I used to drink it.
The way I do now.
The realization flickers and passes without resistance. I don’t question it. I take another sip and let it settle.
I move closer to the counter, drawn more by proximity than intention, and his response is immediate.
“No.” The word lands clean, firm enough to stop me without force.
I pause where I am.
There’s no irritation, no instinct to push back. The boundary holds because it makes sense in the space he’s created.
I step back slightly, letting the moment resolve the way he intended it to, and the rhythm of it continues without disruption.
The moment with my wrist happens too fast for me to avoid it.
I’m reaching for something, and I’m so used to them being there that I make no effort to conceal them.
I see him glance at me, look away and double-take as if he missed something for the first time.
I start to pull my arm back—the instinct sharp and immediate—but his hand closes around it before I can complete the movement.
The grip isn’t tight. It’s decisive, stopping me exactly where he wants me, and holding me there long enough for him to turn the underside of my arm into the light.
The marks are faint.
Easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
He is.
“It’s nothing,” I say, the response automatic.
His thumb moves over one of the lines, slow and deliberate, the contact sending a sharp reaction through me that has nothing to do with pain.