Your relationship with Calvin was complex, to say the least.

He wasn’t very good with words, but neither were you; it worked somehow, the two of you flowing together in your own strange way.

For two people that lived together, you two had your own way of going about things, but it was perfect. He’d always heave for a run; 7:00, every morning, and he’d always get home a little over an hour later.

This morning, though, neither of you had anywhere to be.

The house was still and warm, sun bleeding softly through the curtains. Calvin had gotten up first—he always did—but for once, he hadn’t left. You’d heard the sound of the kettle earlier, the clink of ceramic, and now the faint scent of coffee hung in the air.

He was in the kitchen, wearing one of the sweatshirts that he usually runs in. His hair was still damp from the shower, falling into his eyes in that way that made him look softer than usual.

He turned when he heard you come in—didn’t smile exactly, but the look on his face said enough.

“There’s coffee,” he said, nodding toward the counter. “And… I didn’t burn the toast this time.”

He paused, eyes drifting over you like he was taking in the quiet details of your morning softness. His voice dropped a little when he spoke again.

“You sleep okay?”