Morning sunlight seeped through the thin curtains, slow and deliberate, spilling across the room in quiet bands of gold. It settled gently over Laura's face, warming her closed eyelids, coaxing her back toward the surface of consciousness. The light felt intentional, almost careful—as if the day itself were testing whether it was allowed to wake her.
She stirred beneath the blanket, brow knitting faintly, then shifted again as awareness returned piece by piece.
The first thing she noticed was warmth.
Not just physical warmth, but something deeper—an absence of tension she wasn't used to feeling. Her body wasn't rigid. Her muscles weren't braced for impact or escape. She wasn't already planning where she would run if a door slammed or footsteps approached too quickly.
The scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air—bitter and familiar. Somewhere nearby, the refrigerator hummed steadily. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing softly over damp pavement, the sound muted and distant.
Normal sounds.
Safe sounds.
Laura inhaled deeply and opened her eyes.
The sofa.
A blanket tucked neatly around her shoulders—not tangled, not tossed aside, but placed with care. The living room stretched out before her, quiet and orderly, washed clean by early morning light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, visible only because the sun had found them.
Memory followed sensation.
The movie playing late into the night. The flickering glow of the television. Tomas sitting beside her, silent but present. The quiet clink of beer cans. Her own laughter—surprising and unguarded, as if it had slipped out before she could stop it.
And then…
Warmth.
Steady, unmoving warmth at her side.
Her heart fluttered.
I fell asleep.
Not half-awake. Not dozing with one ear alert. Not curled tight with fear.
I slept.
A strange pressure filled her chest—something tender and frightening all at once.
I don't remember the last time I slept without fear. Without calculating exits. Without imagining worst-case scenarios.
Her gaze drifted to the empty space beside her on the sofa.
Tomas wasn't there.
Another thought struck her suddenly, sharp enough to make her sit upright.
If I slept here… where did he sleep?
Guilt washed over her, immediate and hot.
Did I take his place? Did I push him aside without realizing it? Did he stay awake all night because of me?
Her throat tightened. She swung her legs over the side of the sofa, the blanket slipping quietly to the floor.
"I'll get some water," she whispered to herself, voice barely more than breath, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile calm.
The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, grounding. As she crossed the living room, she became acutely aware of how different the apartment felt.
Cleaner. Lighter.
Lived in.
That realization unsettled her more than the silence.
When she reached the kitchen doorway, she stopped.
Tomas sat at the table, asleep.
His head rested on his folded arms. His posture was slumped—not exhausted in the way of physical labor, but weighted by something deeper. Two empty beer cans stood nearby. In front of him lay a small black notebook, open wide. Its pages were filled with neat, deliberate handwriting—lines carefully spaced, purposeful. A pen rested loosely between his fingers, as though it had slipped from his grasp mid-thought.
Laura's chest tightened.
He looked different like this.
Unarmored. Unwatchful.
Not the distant, closed-off man she had first met. Not the sharp, controlled presence who had stepped into violence without hesitation. This Tomas looked human—fragile in a way she hadn't expected.
Asleep at the table. Writing until his body simply gave up.
Curiosity tugged at her.
Just one glance…
Guilt followed instantly, heavy and cold.
That notebook isn't just paper. It's his thoughts. His plans. His pain.
Peeking would feel like trespassing into something sacred.
She hesitated, torn between respect and the aching need to understand him. Carefully, she took a step closer.
The floor creaked softly beneath her weight.
Tomas stirred.
Laura froze.
His eyes opened—clouded for a fraction of a second—then sharpened instantly when he saw her standing there. In one swift, practiced motion, he snapped the notebook shut and pulled it closer to his chest. The softness vanished from his expression, replaced by something guarded and rigid, like a door slammed shut.
"What are you doing here?"
The words came out sharper than intended. Defensive. Almost harsh.
Laura flinched.
"I—good morning," she stammered, forcing a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I just wanted some water. I didn't mean to wake you."
Tomas rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction, though he didn't fully relax.
"It's fine," he said.
She shifted awkwardly, unsure where to stand, where to look.
"About yesterday…" she began, lowering her gaze. "I didn't even realize when I fell asleep on the sofa. I must've been exhausted. I probably made things uncomfortable for you. You didn't even have a place to lie down, and I—"
Her voice trailed off. Her fingers twisted together nervously.
Tomas straightened slightly.
"It's really fine," he said more gently this time. "I had a lot on my mind. I would've stayed up anyway." He paused, then added, "How did you sleep?"
She hesitated, surprised by the question.
"…Really well," she admitted quietly. "Better than I have in a long time."
Something flickered in his eyes—relief, perhaps. Or satisfaction. Whatever it was, it disappeared almost instantly behind his usual restraint.
Her gaze drifted, despite herself, to the notebook beneath his hand.
"I saw you were writing something," she murmured. "A list, maybe?"
His grip tightened.
"Go wash up," he said abruptly. "I'll make breakfast."
The sudden dismissal stung—but she understood.
That notebook matters to him.
She nodded. "Okay."
She didn't push. She turned and left the kitchen.
When she returned, hair damp and cheeks warm from washing up, the apartment smelled incredible—sweet, buttery, comforting. Pancakes sizzled softly on the stove. Coffee steamed gently on the table.
Tomas stood at the stove, focused, movements precise. Two plates waited neatly side by side, already set.
"They smell amazing," Laura said honestly. "Thank you."
He nodded, avoiding her eyes—but the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
"I'll shower after we eat," he said. "Then I'm heading to work. I'll be late."
Laura smiled.
"I'm working at Obsidian today too. Late shift." She tilted her head playfully. "If you want, you can stop by. I'll give you a discount."
He hesitated.
"I don't really like crowded places."
"I know," she said softly. "But… if you feel like seeing me, you can come."
A pause stretched between them.
"…Alright."
They ate together in quiet companionship—no rush, no awkwardness. Just the soft clink of forks, the steady rhythm of breathing, the unspoken comfort of not being alone.
After breakfast, Laura stood. "I'll wash the dishes. You go shower."
He nodded and disappeared down the hallway.
As she scrubbed the plates, her thoughts returned to the notebook.
He's writing things he wants to do… things he's missing.
Her chest tightened.
He helped me. Protected me. Gave me a place to stay.
Maybe… I can help him too.
The bathroom door opened.
She turned—and nearly dropped a plate.
Tomas walked out wearing only a towel around his waist.
Water clung to his skin. His hair dripped into his eyes. His body was lean and strong, shaped by endurance rather than vanity—quiet power, restrained and unpretentious.
Heat rushed up her neck.
Stop staring. Immediately.
"I left clean clothes in the room," Tomas said casually, passing her as if nothing were unusual.
She nodded quickly, eyes fixed on the sink, cheeks burning.
A moment later, he returned fully dressed.
"I'm heading out."
"So am I," Laura said, regaining her composure. "I'll get ready."
He nodded, opened the door, and stepped outside.
They left separately—
but the warmth between them lingered long after the door closed.