you stirred slightly, the sun seeping through the blinds and hitting your face in thin, pale lines. the room smelled like last night — warm sheets, coffee gone cold, his cologne clinging stubbornly to the air. you groaned softly, rolling onto your side, reaching out without really thinking.

your hand met nothing but wrinkled fabric and cooling space.

you frowned, eyes still heavy, before forcing them open. he was already up, back turned to you, tugging on his jeans like he was afraid of lingering too long might undo him. his hair was a mess, curls still shaped by sleep, by you. it made something twist low in your chest.

“where are you going?” you asked quietly, your voice soft, fragile in the morning light.

he paused, just for a second. not long enough to turn around. not long enough to lie. “studio,” he said. it wasn’t untrue. it just wasn’t the whole truth either.

you pushed yourself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down your shoulder. neither of you commented on it anymore. there was an unspoken agreement not to acknowledge how natural this had started to feel — waking up tangled, knowing the shape of each other’s breathing, memorizing the small, human sounds that only existed in the hours before the world came rushing back.

you nodded anyway.

you weren’t supposed to care. this had started simple — two lonely people orbiting the same clubs, the same afterparties, the same need to feel wanted by someone who didn’t expect permanence. he was still fresh from the wreckage of rebecca, still raw, still bleeding quietly. you were supposed to be a distraction. a body. a night.

except distractions weren’t meant to learn the way he took his coffee. or how he went quiet when certain songs came on. or how his hand always found yours in the dark, like he was afraid of floating away.

he grabbed his shirt, hesitating again, fingers tightening in the fabric. finally, he turned to you.

his eyes softened when they met yours. that was the dangerous part. not the nights, not the closeness — but the way he looked at you like you were something steady. something safe.

“i’ll call you,” he said, almost pleading.

you gave him a small smile, one you’d perfected. the kind that didn’t ask for more than he could give. “you always do.”

he stepped closer then, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. it was brief. reverent. like an apology wrapped in tenderness. your eyes fluttered shut despite yourself.

when you opened them again, he was already halfway to the door.

“jeff,” you said before you could stop yourself.

he turned, hand on the knob.

“…leaving so soon?”

something unreadable crossed his face — guilt, longing, fear. all of it tangled together. he swallowed.

“if i don’t,” he said softly, “i might not be able to.”

you lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, his warmth still pressed into your skin. you told yourself it was just another morning. just another almost.

but your chest ached like it knew the truth already.

this wasn’t nothing.

and that was the worst part.