Ken's warmth, steady against my back, his breath brushing the nape of my neck in slow, even waves.
For a moment, I stayed still, eyes still closed, body pressed into his.
His arm was draped across my waist, heavy but comforting, his fingers curled loosely near my ribs as though they belonged there.
And maybe, somehow, they did.
The room smelled faintly of coffee from yesterday's pot, of rain from the night before, and of something else I couldn't name, something that was simply him.
For the first time in years, I didn't wake up to silence that hurt.
I didn't wake up feeling hollow.
Instead, I woke to his presence, and for a few seconds, that was enough.
Then came the noise.
A sudden burst of laughter, a deep voice calling from the living room, followed by a knock that wasn't really a knock, more like someone bumping into furniture.
Ken stirred behind me, groaning softly.
"What time is it?" he mumbled against my shoulder.
I didn't move. "Early. Maybe too early for guests."
He sighed, the sound rumbling against my skin. "It's probably them."
"Them?"
He shifted, his hand brushing my hip before pulling away. "My friends. They mentioned dropping by this morning, I just didn't think they'd actually do it."
The noise outside grew louder, laughter, someone teasingly calling his name, the familiar chaos of people who didn't believe in quiet mornings.
Ken sat up, rubbing his eyes, his hair a mess of soft brown disarray that made him look unfairly human. "I'll go," he said, voice low, almost reluctant.
I nodded, though my chest tightened as he slipped out of bed.
The moment his warmth left my side, the sheets felt colder.
I heard his voice outside, that gentle calm he always carried when dealing with people, warm, polite, easy.
The same voice that had soothed me through panic, had told me he wasn't going anywhere.
And now it was his friends hearing it.
Not me.
I stayed sitting on the bed for a moment, staring at the faint light filtering through the curtains.
Then, after a long breath, I got up.
His shirt hung loosely off my shoulders, one of his old ones from med school, faded and soft, smelling faintly like soap and cedar.
I hesitated, fingers grazing the fabric, before deciding not to change.
Let them see.
If they wanted to assume, let them.
The moment I opened the door, silence fell.
Four pairs of eyes turned to me.
Three curious, one… wounded.
Keisha.
She was standing near the counter, her glossy hair falling in waves down her shoulders, her eyes wide with disbelief or maybe disappointment.
The mug in her hand trembled just enough for me to notice.
The others were worse, two of them exchanged quick, shocked glances; the third smirked like he'd just walked into the punchline of a joke.
But I didn't flinch. I didn't look away.
"Morning," I said simply, my voice calm, controlled, the same tone I used for directors, journalists, fans who thought they knew me.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then one of them, I think, cleared his throat and muttered something that sounded like, "Good morning," before pretending to fix his watch.
Ken looked between me and them, his jaw tightening slightly. "I told you guys to text first," he said quietly, reaching for a pan like it could somehow shield him from the awkward air now clinging to the room.
Keisha tried to smile. "We did," she said softly. "Maybe you just didn't see it."
The unspoken words hung in the air: Maybe you were too busy.
I moved past them, wordless, straight to the counter where Ken was reaching for eggs.
His back was turned, shoulders stiff, as if pretending not to notice the tension behind him.
"Can I help?" I asked, my voice steady, careful.
He looked over his shoulder briefly, a flicker of something crossing his face, relief, maybe gratitude. "Yeah. Sure."
So I did.
I cracked eggs into a bowl while he sliced vegetables.
The kitchen felt smaller than usual, not because of space, but because of eyes, I could feel them, the weight of curiosity pressing against my back like judgment.
Keisha's laughter tried to fill the silence again, but it came out brittle, too forced. "Wow, Ken," she said lightly, "since when do you have someone to cook with?"
I didn't turn.
Didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Instead, I whisked the eggs, the sound sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat refusing to falter.
Ken only smiled faintly. "Since recently," he said.
Keisha's face shifted, barely, but I saw it.
The brief flash of something that hurt before she masked it with another tight smile.
When breakfast was ready, the table filled quickly with plates, laughter, and the kind of noise I used to crave when I was lonely. But now, sitting here, it all felt like a world I didn't belong to.
Ken sat beside me, his leg brushing mine under the table, a subtle reassurance.
He didn't say much, but he didn't need to.
His presence was enough to steady the storm that had begun swirling in my chest.
Keisha, across from us, kept her gaze fixed mostly on her plate.
But every now and then, her eyes flickered up, first at him, then at me.
I pretended not to notice, though my grip on the fork tightened slightly.
One of the guys cracked a joke about Ken "finally being domesticated," earning a wave of laughter from the group.
"Guess the rumors about the cold doctor aren't true anymore," One added.
Ken only chuckled softly, but I could tell from the way his hand brushed mine under the table, from the quiet squeeze of his fingers, that he didn't mind the teasing.
I didn't know what we were.
I didn't even know if I was allowed to care.
But in that moment, as the morning sunlight hit his face, as his hand lingered in mine just long enough to be noticed, I knew one thing, I didn't want to be anyone's secret, but I also didn't want to lose whatever this was.
So I stayed quiet.
Stayed near him.
Stayed his, even without the name for it.
After breakfast, his friends began to leave one by one. Keisha was last.
She lingered by the door, clutching her purse, eyes darting between us. "It was… nice seeing you again, Ken," she said softly. Then, after a pause, "And you too, Ysabelle."
I smiled, polite, measured, and unshaken. "You too."
Her lips pressed into a thin line before she nodded and stepped out.
The door clicked softly behind her.
For a long moment, there was silence again, just the hum of the refrigerator, the faint clink of dishes in the sink.
Ken exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was… something."
I shrugged, turning back to him. "They're just surprised."
"Maybe," he murmured. "But you handled that better than I would've."
I smiled faintly, brushing my fingers along the counter. "I'm used to people watching me. Judging me. It's easier when you stop trying to explain yourself."
He looked at me for a long second before stepping closer. "You didn't have to come out, you know."
"I wanted to," I said simply. "I'm not ashamed of being here, Ken."
His expression softened.
And for the first time since we woke up, he reached for me, slow, tentative, like a man reminding himself that what he was touching was real.
He wrapped his arms around me, pressing his forehead to mine. "You don't have to prove anything," he whispered.
"I know."
"But you did," he added quietly. "And I… noticed."
I smiled, just barely, letting my hand rest over his heart. "You always do."
The noise from earlier faded completely, replaced by the quiet hum of something I hadn't felt in a long time, peace, fragile but alive, beating quietly between us like a secret promise.
And even as I stood there, with sunlight brushing over us and the faint echo of Keisha's disappointment still hanging in the air, all I could think was this:
I didn't feel like I was pretending.