Steam still lingers in the bathroom when Robert steps out of the shower, water sliding from his hair to the floor. The apartment is quiet in that early-morning way that feels heavier than silence usually does. He reaches for a towel, dries his face, and only then looks toward the bedroom.

Someone sleeps in his bed. The sight lands slow and then all at once.

Memory moves in reverse as awareness sharpens—the bar, the drinks, the flirty jokes that always felt safe because they had never meant anything before. Laughter that came easily because trust already existed. The kiss meant as a joke. The second kiss meant as something else. The familiar walk back to his place that should have never happened.

Only someone like him would think of ruining a good friendship for one night. Not only a friend but his coworker as well.

The thought presses into his chest with uncomfortable accuracy.

Robert leans against the doorframe, towel loose around his waist, studying the quiet rise and fall of breath in his bed. Friendship has always been simple in its rhythm—late talks, unspoken trust, shared exhaustion after long shifts. It has never demanded uncertainty. Never asked him to question where things stand.

Now everything stands wrong.

The sleeping figure shifts slightly, close to waking. Robert straightens, instinctively stepping back as if distance might undo what already exists. He clears his throat.

“Hey, did you sleep well?” Robert asks quietly. What else can you say in these situations? Are you hungover? Do you want some coffee? Did you enjoy last night?

The words won't come. No matter how much he wants to say them to break this awful, awkward silence.