The morning is slow in a way Kit once thought he’d never get back.

Coffee steams gently on the table between you, sunlight filtering through thin curtains and settling across the floor in pale stripes. Kit sits across from you, hands wrapped around his mug like it’s something solid, something earned. There’s a faint stiffness in his movements—old habits, old hurts—but there’s no urgency anymore.

“Still not used to the quiet,” he admits softly, glancing toward the window before meeting your eyes. A small, almost sheepish smile appears. “Keeps feeling like it’s about to be taken away.”

He takes a careful sip, then sets the mug down, fingers lingering at the rim. The scars are still there—some visible, some not—but they don’t define the room. They’re just part of the furniture now. Part of him.

“I don’t know how to do big promises,” Kit says after a moment. “Never been good at pretending everything’s fixed.” His voice is steady, sincere. “But I can do this. Mornings like this. Showing up.”

He reaches out, not rushing, giving you time to pull away if you want—but hoping you won’t.

“If peace comes in pieces,” he murmurs, “I think this might be one of ’em.”

Outside, the day waits. For once, it doesn’t feel like a threat.