The sunlight hit the living room in a soft, golden gleam, cutting through the thin curtains like a slow reminder that the world kept moving, even when everything inside me felt paused.
I sat on the couch, tea in hand, replaying last night in my head.
The kitchen. The rain. The dark.
His voice, the way he looked at me like he wasn't supposed to.
Everything felt quieter today.
Heavier, somehow, yet lighter at the same time.
Callisto appeared, as if summoned by thought, holding two mugs. He handed me one without a word.
"Coffee, love," he said, his tone was easy and unreadable.
"Thanks." My voice came out softer than I meant.
My hands wrapped around the warm mug, grateful for the simple heat.
He sat across from me, elbows resting on his knees. For once, he wasn't moving, wasn't checking his phone, wasn't thinking about work.
Just… there. It was strange.
The kind of strangeness that made the room feel smaller.
For a moment, we didn't speak.
The city outside began to wake.
The faint car horns, footsteps, a door closing somewhere down the hall. The sound of life creeping back in.
"You looked… tired last night," I said finally, careful not to sound like I was prying.
"You don't usually stop moving, even for a second."
He shrugged, eyes still on the window. "Deadlines. But I rested when I could."
Then, quieter, "Not enough, obviously."
I smiled faintly, trying to keep the moment light. "That's the understatement of the year. You don't do small words, do you?"
"I do," he said, glancing at me. "Just not often."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It felt different. It was calm, steady, like standing still after running too long.
I set my mug down. "So… today. We keep pretending, or…?"
His lips curved slightly, that small half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Pretending never really stops," he said. "But that doesn't mean it's not easier when it feels… less forced."
"Less forced?" I repeated.
"Yesterday. Last night." His tone softened. "It was honest. Even if only in parts."
That word hung in the air.
Honest. Not romantic.
Not dramatic. Just real.
And somehow that made it heavier.
We spent the morning like that, moving around each other in a quiet rhythm.
He refilled my mug without asking.
I made toast and left a slice on his side of the table without comment.
He fixed something in the cabinet that didn't actually need fixing. It was domestic in the smallest, strangest way.
Everyday life, but with a thread of something unspoken weaving between us.
When I finally grabbed my bag to leave for the store, he followed me to the door, then to the elevator. It wasn't unusual, but it still caught me off guard.
"Traffic, love," he said, leaning against the wall casually. "Or… fate, I suppose."
I raised a brow. "Fate? Or you just can't resist being helpful?"
"Maybe a little of both," he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching.
The elevator doors closed before I could respond.
The reflection of my face in the metal doors looked the same, but I didn't feel the same.
Something had shifted overnight.
Quietly, subtly.
Not enough to name it, not enough to change what we were supposed to be.
But enough to notice. Enough to feel.
When I stepped out into the light of morning, the air felt different, too. Brighter, sharper.
And I knew that from now on, I'd notice him more than I should.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd notice me too.