Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I don’t even need to look; my stomach already knows who it is.
Brian
I hate how we left things.
I miss you.
The man who shoved his finger into my collarbone now says he misses me. My stomach twists. I flip the phone screen down and push it away slightly.
Brian’s emotions fluctuate daily. One minute, it’s apologies; the next, it’s threats. My favorite is when he’s sweet to me because he wants something.
The emotional pendulum never calms down.
I swallow hard, the coffee suddenly sour in my throat.
God, why does guilt always taste like I owe him something?
Before the familiar dread can grow inside me, a cabinet clicks shut in front of me, pulling me out of my spiral.
He moves around the kitchen, planting himself in front of his porcelain farmhouse sink as he rinses the skillet from breakfast, and places it on the drying rack without making unnecessary noise.
The atmosphere feels peaceful in a way that’s unfamiliar to me. Muscles that are usually conditioned to flinch at every sudden sound find nothing to respond to here.
“You’ve been staring at that same frame for ten minutes,” he says, his tone gentle, not teasing.
I close my laptop halfway and keep my fingertips resting on its edge. “I’m distracted.”
He nods once, as if he understands more than I admit. He picks up two travel mugs from the counter and fills them with the freshly brewed pot. He places one in front of me, no words, just a steady offering.
I don’t think I need any more caffeine, but who am I to say no?
“I think you need a break,” he says. He slides the mug a little closer with a quiet gesture that feels more intimate than it should. “And I know exactly where we should go.”
I lift my eyes to him. “Where’s that?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. His posture remains relaxed, but there’s a hint of attentiveness behind it.
“We’ve got several stops,” he explains. “A whole morning of not thinking about anything except what’s right in front of you.”
I look down at my hands, where they wrap around the warm mug, the steam blurring the edges of my vision for a moment. My chest tightens, not quite painfully, more as areminder of how long it’s been since anyone asked whatImight need.
I close my laptop fully and slide it away from me.
My phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look.
Pushing myself to stand, the chair legs softly brush the floor, and he watches my movement without moving into my space or away from it.
“If you want,” he adds after a brief pause, “I can give you five minutes to change.” His attention flickers once to my pajama sleeves before returning to my eyes.
He doesn’t comment on them—no smirk, no expectation—just an offer of privacy and comfort. The simplicity of that respect nearly unravels me.
“Five minutes is perfect,” I manage.
As I walk toward the hallway, my bare feet press into the hardwood floor, and the house breathes around me; soft, sturdy, lived-in. Near the wall that opens up to the hallway, I stop and glance over my shoulder.
He’s already turned away to rinse the coffee spoon, giving me space without making me feel abandoned. He pretends to focus on his task, but I can still sense the tenderness behind the pretense.
