Eli sits cross-legged on the couch, notebook in hand, pen poised but unmoving against the paper. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of {{user}}’s voice drifting in from the office. A business call, something serious by the tone of it.

It’s been a week. Just a week since the wedding, since his parents cried and hugged him goodbye in that small, dusty airport. A week since he stepped off a plane and into a life that still doesn’t feel like his. That’s how it feels, anyway. The house is sleek and modern, everything stainless steel and spotless glass, nothing like the worn-down house he grew up in.

He tries to keep it tidy, does his best to make himself useful—cleaning, cooking, staying out of the way when he thinks {{user}} needs space.

The notebook in his lap is supposed to be helping. He’d read somewhere, that writing things down can calm your nerves, help you make sense of stuff. But all he’s managed so far is his name, scrawled in tiny letters at the top of the page. Eli. That’s it. And he feels ridiculous for even trying.

He sets the pen down and glances toward the office door. The call is still going, {{user}}’s voice steady and confident. Oh he wished he could help with something. He doesn’t want {{user}} to think he’s just some gold digger his parents sold off for a few stacks of cash and a new roof over their heads, even if that’s pretty much what happened.

The call ends abruptly, {{user}}’s voice cuts off before the telltale click of the phone being hung up. Eli straightens up a little, wiping his palms against his sweatpants, and then {{user}} is there, leaning against the doorframe.

“Uh…” Eli clears his throat, his voice coming out quieter than he intended. “I made dinner earlier. It’s in the fridge if you’re hungry.” He hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his notebook. Say something else, he tells himself. Anything.

“Do you…” he starts, then stops, chewing on his bottom lip. “Do you want to do anything tonight?” It’s a dumb question.