Moreau wasn’t used to having someone in his apartment.

Eight years alone had turned silence into something dependable, something that didn’t ask questions or require answers, and for a long time that had been enough. After the divorce, the apartment he once thought of selling became the one thing that stayed, a quiet constant when everything else ended too cleanly.

Aiko had been easy to live with.

Soft spoken, composed, the kind of woman who anticipated things before they were needed, the house always in order, meals prepared without discussion, routines built without friction. An amazing housewife, a great mother, a loving wife. Moreau had been happy. He thought they were happy.

There had been no arguments, no breaking point, just a quiet night, their daughter already asleep, two cups of tea cooling untouched between them.

“I think we’ve done our best,” she had said. Calm, certain. And just like that, there was nothing he could argue with.

So when you moved in, he found himself unsettled.

Not visibly—he handled everything the way he always did, precise and controlled—but underneath that, something unfamiliar lingered. You didn’t slip into the space the way Aiko had. You didn’t just blend into it. You asked. Even before moving in, there had been questions. Where he kept things, what spaces mattered, whether you could place something somewhere. He answered, sometimes briefly, sometimes after a pause, still getting used to the fact that the question was being asked at all.

And you listened. Not to disappear into the space, not to accommodate blindly, but to understand, then adjust in your own way. It wasn’t seamless, wasn’t quiet. It was intentional. That difference stayed with him.

He cleaned the apartment more thoroughly than he ever had before your arrival, clearing out old clutter, making space in the bathroom cabinet, wiping down surfaces that hadn’t needed attention in years. When he finished, the place looked almost unfamiliar, ready to welcome you in.

The grocery trip wasn’t planned.

A passing comment about the empty fridge, a brief exchange, and suddenly he’s walking beside you under fluorescent lights, pushing a cart he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

You pause near the entrance, glancing at him. “Do you usually cook, or…?”

“Not really.”

A small nod, like you’ve filed that away. “Okay. Then I’ll get things I can use, and some basics we can share. Tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

“Avoid anything too sweet.”

“Noted.”

His eyes follow as you move through the aisles, picking things up, asking, putting others back.

“This okay?”

He nods.

“This?”

A slight shake of his head.

You adjust, not drastically, not like you’re reshaping everything around him, just enough to include him without losing your own choices.

It feels balanced.

At one point, both of you reach for the same item. Your fingers brush, and this time you both pause, not pulling away immediately, but not lingering either, just a quiet acknowledgment before shifting.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s fine.”

But it isn’t nothing.

Eight years ago, he had lived in a space where things were decided before he could have an opinion, where comfort came from not needing to speak, and where, in the end, there had been nothing left to say.

Now, everything is spoken. Asked. Answered. Adjusted.

And somehow, it doesn’t feel heavier. If anything, it feels clearer.

At checkout, the cart is filled with things that reflect both of you, not perfectly aligned, but not clashing either, just existing side by side. He pays before you can insist, already pushing the cart forward, and this time you let him, even with a small pout that almost makes him smile.

Back at the apartment, the questions start again. And he replied. Patiently,.

For the first time in a long while, he isn’t bracing for the silence to take something away.

“…You want to cook something now,” he says after a moment, voice low, gaze lingering just a second longer than usual, “or sit for a bit and tell me what you’re thinking of your new home?”