The next morning came quiet, too quiet.
The kind of silence that makes you realize how heavy peace can feel when it's empty.
My head didn't ache, I hadn't drunk enough to feel it, but my body was tired in a way that no sleep could fix.
I stayed in bed for a while, eyes open, watching the sunlight crawl across the ceiling.
When I finally got up, I wrapped myself in a robe, padded barefoot to the kitchen, and poured coffee. T
he aroma filled the air, strong and bitter.
I liked it that way.
Halfway through my first sip, there was a knock on the door.
Once.
Then again, louder.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
Only one person would knock like he owned the place.
I didn't answer immediately.
I took another sip first, then another.
When the knocking didn't stop, I finally walked to the door and opened it.
Calix stood there, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his shirt half-buttoned, looking like someone who'd run out of excuses but still tried to act like he had plenty.
"Morning, wife," he said with that familiar smirk.
I didn't respond.
I just stepped aside, letting him in without a word.
He walked in, looked around, hands in his pockets. "You're calm. That's... unexpected."
"Should I be otherwise?" I asked, voice flat.
"I mean, last night—"
"Last night," I interrupted, "you were yourself. I expected nothing less."
He blinked, maybe thrown off by the lack of emotion in my tone. "You saw me with them."
"I did."
"And you told them you're my wife."
"I did."
He leaned against the counter, studying me like I was something he couldn't quite figure out. "You weren't jealous?"
I raised an eyebrow slightly. "Should I be?"
"That's usually how this works," he said, half laughing.
"I don't work like most people."
He smiled faintly. "Yeah, I noticed."
Silence settled between us.
I sipped my coffee again, unbothered, while he stood there looking like he wanted to say a hundred things but didn't know where to start.
Finally, he exhaled. "You're impossible, Aurora."
"Good," I said, setting the cup down. "It keeps people from expecting too much."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, you could at least pretend to care. For the sake of the act."
I met his gaze, calm and steady. "You're mistaking indifference for weakness. I care when it matters. Last night I didn't."
That made him quiet.
For a moment, he just looked at me, really looked, like he was trying to read something past the surface, but all he'd find was glass.
Then, he sighed. "You're really something else."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Still sounds like one."
He laughed softly, frustrated but amused, then pushed himself off the counter. "Fine. Keep pretending you don't care."
"I'm not pretending," I said, already turning away.
He didn't reply.
I heard the door open, then close, followed by silence, the kind I liked, the kind I could breathe in again.
I stood there for a moment, hands around my mug, staring out the window.
The city was alive outside, messy and loud, but here, everything was still.
And maybe that was the point.
He could live loud.
I could live quietly.
He could burn.
I could freeze.
And somehow, we'd still end up tangled in the same storm.