The light is soft when I wake — pale through the blinds, thick with dust that drifts like slow breath. The air smells faintly of coffee and last night’s rain.

Ellis sits at the kitchen table, bare chest angled toward the sun, his phone glowing in his hand. His hair’s still damp from the shower, flattened in uneven streaks; the back sticks up like it always does when he towel-dries too fast.

The coffee between us has gone cold.

I slice fruit on the counter — strawberries, then peaches — the knife tapping a quiet rhythm against the plate. The sound feels louder than it should.

“How’s work been?” he asks, not looking up.

“Good.” The word lands somewhere between us and doesn’t move.

“Orders still coming in steady?”

“Mmh.” I push a slice of peach aside with the knife.

He nods without hearing, thumb sliding across his screen. The sunlight catches the edge of his glass — condensation sliding down, pooling near his wrist. I watch the trail it leaves, slow and sure, until it reaches the wood and disappears.

He finally looks up, smiling the way people do when they remember they’re supposed to. “You eating with me or just feeding the counter again?”

I smile back, small. “Trying not to cut my fingers this time.”

He laughs once — low, distracted — then sets the phone aside. “Come here.”

His hand finds my waist, warm, sure. He pulls me into his lap with a practiced ease that once felt like home. My knees press against his thighs; his chin rests in the space between my neck and shoulder.

The moment folds into stillness. His breath warms my skin, slow and steady.

I reach for the coffee, sip what’s left — it’s bitter now, the taste sitting flat on my tongue.

He presses a kiss behind my ear, a soft sound, then another. I close my eyes but don’t lean in.

The hum of the fridge fills the quiet, steady as a pulse.

When I open my eyes, the condensation trail has vanished.

The air hums with heat, thick enough to taste.
Pollen clings to everything — parked cars, the edges of mailboxes, the curls at my temple damp from sweat. The smell of magnolia and asphalt turns the afternoon heavy.

Ellis’s shoulder glints under the light. He walks beside me, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, his shirt already sticking to his back. The leather of his belt creaks when he shifts his weight.

“You ever think about visiting Macon?” he asks, shading his eyes with one hand. “You’d like it. Quiet. Flat. The air smells like peaches and barbecue instead of smog.”

“I like smog,” I say. “Makes the sunrise look honest.”

He laughs — low, easy, the sound familiar but softened by distance. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”

We pass a row of cracked sidewalks lined with overgrown yards. Cicadas drone from somewhere unseen, the sound threading through the space between our steps.

Ellis talks about work — a new recruit, an upcoming training trip. “If things go right, I might get the regional role. Less field work, more office.”
He kicks at a pebble, watches it skitter across the concrete.
“Maybe even transfer up here. Move back to Atlanta full time.”

I look at him. His eyes stay on the ground.

“That’d be… good,” I say, the word landing like an unfinished thought.

He glances over, mouth curved faintly. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I just—” I wipe sweat from my neck, fingers trembling. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time.”
His tone is easy, but his hand tightens around his phone until his knuckles pale.

A dog barks from behind a chain-link fence — short, sharp bursts that echo against the houses. The rhythm breaks the air between us.

I slow at the crosswalk, the red light blinking against the pavement. Our shadows stretch long and separate across the painted lines.

“You think you’d really want to?” I ask.

He tilts his head. “Want to what?”

“Come back.”

The pause after sits heavy — like he hadn’t thought past saying it.
“I’d want to,” he says finally, quiet. “If it meant we’d stop doing this halfway thing.”

“Halfway,” I echo, the word flat on my tongue.

The light changes. White now. We start walking again.

The wind lifts — a brief, warm gust that tangles my hair against my mouth. I tuck it behind my ear. Our hands swing close but never meet.

“Wouldn’t mind the drive ending,” he says, smiling as if to lighten it.

I nod once. “Yeah.”

The city hums louder ahead of us — traffic, chatter, the smell of coffee roasting from a nearby café. Everything moves, and we just keep pace.

He laughs once more at nothing. I do too. It sounds thin.

The breeze dies. Our shadows fall apart again.

We keep walking.

The apartment smells like garlic and soap — dinner half-cleaned, plates drying on the rack. The hum of the city filters through the cracked window, low and constant.

Ellis sits beside me on the couch, his arm stretched across the back. The glow from the streetlamp hits his shoulder, softens the edges of him. His thumb traces idle circles against my arm — easy, practiced.

The TV’s still on, volume low, some sitcom laugh track that doesn’t match the room.

He shifts closer. His breath brushes my jaw before his mouth does. The first kiss lands sure, familiar.

Another follows — slower, heavier. His hand slides up the back of my neck, into my hair, thumb pressing lightly at the base of my skull.

I breathe him in: detergent, the faint bite of aftershave, something saltier beneath it. His heartbeat thuds against my ribs, steady as the hum outside.

When he leans harder, the air changes — tighter, smaller. My hand moves without thought, pressing gently against his chest.

The motion halts him. Not rough, just enough.

He exhales against my neck, the sound warm, quiet. His body stays close, but something pulls taut between us — not resistance, just gravity rethreading itself.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words come soft, steady. “I just—can’t tonight.”

He doesn’t move right away. His breathing slows, mouth still against my skin like he’s deciding whether to answer.

Then he leans back, hands falling to his lap. The light catches his jaw, sharp with exhaustion. He looks at me — really looks — the blue in his eyes dimmed to stormwater.

“You’re somewhere else lately, baby.”

The word lands gentle but unguarded.

I stare at the hem of my shirt, twist it once around my fingers. “I know.”

He nods, jaw working once before he smiles — not wide, not angry, just tired. “Okay.”

The laugh track on the TV fades into another scene. The city outside blinks in rhythm with the sound.

We sit that way until the air goes still again.

The silence lasts longer than the kiss ever did.

The room hums with quiet. The only light comes from the street — soft amber threading through the blinds, spilling in thin stripes across the sheets.

Ellis sleeps beside me, turned slightly onto his stomach. His arm drapes heavy across my waist, the weight warm and grounding. I can feel the pulse in his wrist against my ribs, steady, untroubled.

The air smells faintly of soap and skin. A night breeze slips through the cracked window, brushing cool against my cheek. Somewhere below, a car passes — slow, a low rumble that fades into distance.

I trace a line along the back of his arm, fingers moving gently through the fine hairs there. His skin is warm, alive, solid in a way that should feel like safety.

He murmurs something in his sleep, the sound lost into the pillow. His breath stirs the sheet between us.

My eyes follow the shadows climbing the ceiling. They shift as headlights move by, breaking the stillness into soft, moving pieces.

Each sound feels louder in the quiet — the click of the clock, the soft exhale from the vent, the small shift of fabric when I breathe too deep.

I think of Caleb’s laugh — that low rasp that caught in his throat before it turned to a smile. The sound of it still hangs somewhere in the back of my chest, refusing to leave.

I think of the marigolds in the window downstairs — how they open toward the light without ever questioning where it goes at night.

And I think of Ellis — here, but never long enough to stay.

My hand stills on his arm. The warmth beneath my fingers doesn’t reach the space between us.

He deserves someone who waits for him, someone who moves when he moves, who wants the distance and the road. Someone who doesn’t keep glancing behind.

The thought settles quiet, simple as breath.

I shift carefully, just enough to ease his arm aside. He doesn’t wake. He exhales and turns onto his back, mouth parted, chest rising slow.

The light outside changes — amber to gray, gray to blue. Morning trying to find its way in.

I lie there, eyes open, until it does.