Didn’t check.
Couldn’t.
My hand moved anyway, fingers closing around it in one clean motion, wrapping it instantly in toilet paper—once, twice—until it was nothing more than a shape in my palm, something unidentifiable, contained.
The drawer slid open with a soft, familiar sound.
I placed it inside without hesitation, pushing it toward the back beneath a stack of neatly folded towels, adjusting them once—twice—until everything sat exactly the way it had before.
The drawer closed.
I washed my hands, letting the cold water run over my fingers longer than necessary, grounding myself in the sensation,resetting the rhythm of my breathing before shutting it off.
“You’ve been busy.” My father was the master of never missing a beat, the conversation picking up without complication of my future now resting in a drawer. “And you’re managing it?”
“Yes.” The word landed between us, and I felt it the second it left my mouth—felt the way it sharpened the air just enough for him to notice.
I turned before he could respond, reaching for my laptop, closing it halfway like that had been the plan all along, like I hadn’t just been standing in my kitchen trying to convince myself my body wasn’t betraying me.
“It’s been good,” I added, layering it in, smoothing the edge. “Demanding—” A sharp, sudden drop in my stomach that hit fast enough to steal the rest of the sentence before I could finish it.
One hand braced lightly against the counter, fingers tightening against the edge before I forced them to release.
My father’s movement stopped. His attention shifted—subtle, immediate, narrowing in a way that didn’t feel invasive and still missed nothing.
“You’re not sleeping,” he observed quietly.
“I am.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t press.
He just watched.
I straightened fully, rolling my shoulders back, forcing everything back into alignment—posture, breath, expression.
“Do you want coffee?”
“Please.” Simple. Warm. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was exactly the way it should be.
The coffee machine clicked on under my hand, the lowhum filling the space just enough to give me something to focus on. Something mechanical. Predictable. Safe.
Something that didn’t require thought.
Behind me, my father moved—quiet, deliberate, the soft brush of his coat against the back of the chair the only indication he’d changed position at all.
“You’ve made this work,” he offered.
“I had to,” I replied, reaching for the mugs, aligning them without looking down.
The smell hit again. Wrong. Too strong. My stomach turned sharply, fast enough that I had to pause mid-reach, fingers hovering in the air before I forced them to continue.
Not now.
The lock turned quietly behind me, the sound subtle enough that it should have disappeared into the background noise of the apartment, but it didn’t. It cut clean through everything anyway, slipping under the hum of the coffee machine and the low hiss of the radiator, sharp enough to pull my attention before I could stop it.
I went still without meaning to.