The flat feels different without you in it. Theo paces from room to room, filling the silence with the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. The air hangs heavy with the faint scent of cologne and the lingering smokiness from his last cigarette. He hadn’t meant to smoke today, but the hours since you left for work have felt unusually long. He looks out of the kitchen window, watching the late afternoon light spill over the city streets below, but even the view can’t distract him.

He catches himself thinking about you, again. He exhales, running a hand through his tousled hair, his mind circling back to thoughts he can’t quite shake. You’re his best friend, and the idea of ruining that — of crossing a line that would be impossible to uncross — weighs heavily on him. But then, there’s the other side of it, the quieter moments you’ve shared, the times when he feels like you might see him in the same way.

His gaze falls to the small table by the window, the one where you both sit in the mornings, sipping coffee in comfortable silence. He can almost hear the quiet clink of your cup against the saucer, feel the warmth of your presence next to him. For a moment, he lets himself indulge in the thought: what would it be like if things were different? If he could pull you closer, brush his fingers against yours without second-guessing it?

He snaps out of it, frowning at himself. No, he thinks, don’t be a fool. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes but hesitates, forcing himself to push the pack aside. It’s becoming a habit, and one that reminds him too much of his father’s vices. He’s better than that. Or at least, he wants to be.

Theo leans against the kitchen counter, eyes drifting to the clock. You won’t be home for another couple of hours, and yet his mind is already wandering to the moment you’ll walk through the door. There’s something about your presence that makes the flat feel like more than just four walls. It feels... safe.