I let myself settle into it.
That was the first mistake.
It didn’t stay where it should have. It didn’t remain surface-level, something I could acknowledge and move past. It moved inward instead, slipping past the structures I relied on, finding the parts of me that had gone too long without anything to answer them.
A pocket carved out of something harsher. A place that existed outside of pressure, outside of expectation, outside of the constant calculation of what came next and what it would cost.
An oasis.
Temporary. Isolated. Something you passed through, notsomething you stayed in. I knew better than to mistake it for anything else.
That didn’t make it easier to leave. Because the longer I stayed inside it, the more my body adjusted to it, the more it registered as something worth holding onto, something that would be noticeably absent the second it was gone.
That was where the danger lived.
I stayed anyway.
Long enough to feel the shift. Long enough to understand exactly what I was risking by allowing it to continue.
I slid my arm out from under her in increments, pausing when she shifted, waiting for her breathing to settle before continuing, adjusting without acknowledging that I was doing it, compensating instinctively for her without allowing it to register as intention.
Bento stirred between us, a small shift against the quiet, his body tightening for a second as awareness surfaced, his head lifting just enough to find me. His eyes opened halfway, unfocused at first, then settling, locking onto mine with a clarity that didn’t belong to something half-asleep.
He didn’t startle.
Didn’t bristle.
Didn’t make a sound.
Then, as if whatever he was looking for had already vanished, he blinked once, his body folding back into itself as he tucked closer into Bea without hesitation.
A quiet, steady purr that settled into the space between us, unbroken, unguarded.
Acceptance.
I let out a small breath before swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my feet finding the floor without sound, the cold cutting immediately, pulling me fully into the present in a way nothing else had managed yet.
I sat there for a second, my back straight and my hands braced against my thighs, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, to the quiet hum of the apartment settling into morning, to the unbroken, unbothered sound of the purr that hadn’t stopped, and to the absence of everything that had filled my head moments ago, replaced by something else I didn’t yet have the language to define.
Then I stood. I moved toward the door, each step familiar, routine settling over me piece by piece, something I could rely on, something that didn’t shift without warning.
At the threshold, I stopped, my hand lifting before I could stop it, just enough to register the impulse but not enough to follow through or cross the space I had just created; I could have reached back, adjusted the blanket, moved her hair out of her face, touched—something small, something meaningless—and instead I let my hand fall, turned, and walked out, the distance already settling in around me the way it was supposed to, restoring order the way it always had. It didn’t.
I moved into the kitchen, bare feet silent against worn wood. The overhead lights stayed off. I didn’t need them. The gray wash of winter morning was enough, filtering in through the sheer curtains in a muted, indifferent way.
I reached for the coffee first. Whole beans. Dark roast. German import I had shipped in every few weeks because it tasted like home. I poured without looking, the weight of it already known, already accounted for, the grinder coming to life under my hand with a low, mechanical hum that settled something in my chest by virtue of repetition alone.
The machine hissed as it heated, steam pushing through the system, pressure building in a way I understood.
I reached for the kettle next without thinking, filling it from the tap and setting it on the burner.
Loose leaf. Not the bags she kept shoved to the back ofthe cabinet for convenience. I opened the tin instead, the sharp, clean scent of English Breakfast rising up immediately, heavier than what most people expected from something that simple. I measured it out properly this time, not by habit, not by approximation—exact, deliberate, the way it was meant to be done.
Water just off boil.
I watched it carefully, waiting for the agitation to settle before pouring, letting it hit the leaves clean instead of burning through them. It bloomed slower that way. Fuller. Better.
Milk—steamed, small pitcher angled just enough to catch the edge of the heat without scorching it. Sugar cubes instead of loose. Two.