The room hums in low amber light, the kind that feels borrowed from somewhere softer. The refrigerator murmurs behind me, steady and alive, and I sit on the floor beside the couch with my knees drawn close, my sleeves stiff with salt where tears dried against the fabric. The phone glows on the rug, Caleb’s name lit in blue against the dark.

My thumb hovers above the call button. The air smells faintly of takeout and marigolds — the sweetness turned sharp. For a moment, I listen to the small sounds that mean I’m still here: the clock ticking, the faint static in the lamp, the uneven pull of my breath. Then I press.

The ring barely begins before his voice fills the line. “Hey, Little. I’m surprised you called.”

It’s the same voice I remember — rough at the edges, warm in the middle.

“I broke up with him,” I say. The words taste hollow. “He was cheating, I think. Or he let me believe he was.”

There’s only breath for a while — his, mine, tangled in the quiet between us. “You okay?” he asks at last.

I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “No.”

“I’m coming.”

The line clicks. The sound leaves a shape in the air, a soft echo where his voice was.

I set the phone down beside me, the glow fading until the screen mirrors my face back — pale, red-eyed, still trembling. The lamp hums, the marigold petals shift in the draft from the vent, and the air grows thick with something that isn’t sorrow anymore, not exactly — just the pause that comes after it.

I stay where I am, breathing slow, my heartbeat counting out the quiet. It feels like waiting, but gentler than before — like the world is holding its breath with me, ready for whatever comes through the door next.

Rain begins before I notice it, soft against the windows, the kind that moves in waves instead of drops. The air carries the smell of asphalt and something electric, the shift before a storm. I leave the door unlocked without meaning to, half-listening for footsteps that might not come.

A knock — once, then twice. The hinges creak as the door opens.

He stands there in the doorway, hair damp and curling at the ends, jacket half unzipped, a cardboard drink tray and a paper bag balanced in his hands. His shirt clings slightly where the rain caught him.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, voice low, almost apologetic. “So I brought everything.”

The words land soft, but they hold the room together. I step aside, letting him pass. The scent of takeout follows — soy, ginger, the faint sweetness of steamed rice.

He moves through the apartment like he’s learning it by touch, setting the bags down, pulling out containers, finding plates without asking. He fills the kettle and sets it on the stove, the sound of water meeting metal a small kind of comfort.

Steam rises in threads. The light from the stove flickers across the counter, catching on his hands as he wipes it down with a towel he finds by instinct. He hums under his breath — tuneless, grounding.

I lean against the counter, my head heavy against the cabinet behind me. His movement is quiet but sure, every gesture deliberate, careful. The exhaustion in my limbs shifts, not gone, just less alone.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say. My voice sounds strange, like it’s been left somewhere too long.

Caleb glances up, and for the first time tonight, he really looks at me. His eyes are the same shade of brown as the tea he’s steeping — deep, steady, familiar. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small but certain.

“Yes, I did,” he says. “You needed me.”

The kettle begins to hum, a sound low and round as breath. The air warms with the scent of jasmine, rain softening to drizzle outside.

He sets two mugs on the table, one slightly chipped from the rim. The apartment feels full again — not loud, not bright, just awake. The kind of alive that doesn’t demand anything, only offers presence.

I breathe in the warmth, the tea, the sound of him moving. The quiet stretches, but this time, it doesn’t hurt.

The rain outside turns to a whisper, brushing steady against the glass. The TV hums in the background, all soft light and forgotten dialogue. The air tastes like sesame and soy, warm from the takeout spread between us.

Caleb sits cross-legged across from me, sleeves rolled to his elbows, chopsticks balanced between his fingers. He pushes a carton of noodles closer. “You should eat more,” he says. “You barely touched anything.”

“I’m trying,” I murmur, picking at a piece of broccoli. The sauce sticks to my fingertips.

He smiles — not wide, just enough to change the light on his face. “You always did that. Eat everything except the vegetables.”

“That’s not true.”

“Uh-huh.” He leans back on one hand, the floor creaking beneath him. “You remember that fair in high school? You traded your salad for Harlow’s funnel cake. I watched it happen.”

A quiet laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear. You said the world was too heavy to eat lettuce.” He laughs softly, the sound low, rough, familiar. “I still think about that sometimes.”

The laughter settles into quiet again, gentle as steam curling from the open cartons. Then his voice changes — lower, less playful. “There was this dog, over in Seoul. Stray mutt, half-frozen when I found her. She used to wait behind the barracks for scraps. Wouldn’t touch anything unless I sat down first.”

I look up. “Did you name her?”

He nods. “Miri. It means future, I think. The woman who ran the laundry told me that.” His thumb traces the edge of a chopstick like it’s something delicate. “She followed me for months. When I left, she stayed by the gate. Wouldn’t come any closer.”

The rain thickens again, a slow percussion against the sill.

He exhales. “There was this kid — worked at the train station, used to sell fried buns. He showed me how to fold paper stars while we waited for our trains. Said if you make a thousand, you get to start over.”

“How many did you make?”

“Seventy-two.” His grin is tired but soft. “Didn’t have enough paper.”

The TV light catches on the small scars that trail his forearm, silver lines that shift as he moves. They used to look like loss. Now they just look like skin.

“Sometimes,” he continues, voice distant but not gone, “we’d get clear nights out there. No city glare, no noise. Just stars — bright as glass. I’d forget where I was for a while. Felt almost... home.”

The word lingers, fragile as steam.

I swallow slowly. “You still look for it? That feeling?”

He meets my eyes for a moment too long. “Maybe. Or maybe I just look for something that feels like breathing again.”

I nod, though my throat’s too tight for words. The warmth from the tea mug seeps into my palms.

We eat the last bites in silence. The rain softens back to a hush. The air smells of jasmine and soy and something quieter, something like staying.

Caleb leans back against the couch, lids half-lowered. “It’s nice,” he says. “Just sitting like this with you.”

I look at him through the low glow of the lamp. “Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache. It rests.

The kind that feels like peace finding its way back through the door.

The TV fills the dark with shifting color — blues, golds, the slow flicker of movement that doesn’t belong to either of us. Containers sit open on the coffee table, steam gone cold. The scent of sesame still lingers in the air.

Caleb stands, stretching. His shirt catches the light from the screen, shadow slipping across his shoulders. He reaches for the empty cups first, stacking them carefully, then bends to gather the rest.

“Should get out of your hair,” he says quietly, more to the floor than to me.

Before I can think, my hand moves. Fingers curl around his wrist, the pulse beneath skin warm, steady.
“Don’t,” I say. My voice comes out small, breath scraping the word. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He stills. For a moment the only sound is the rain thinning outside and the murmur of some sitcom laugh track. He looks at me, not sharply, just long enough to find what I mean beneath the words.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

He sits back down. The couch dips under our weight, the springs sighing. He sets the containers aside and leans back, one arm draped loosely across the backrest. The TV light runs over his face in soft stripes.

We don’t talk. We just sit — the air warm from the radiator, the faint scent of tea clinging to the room. His hand rests near mine on the cushion, close enough that I feel the ghost of its heat against my knuckles.

After a while, I lean sideways, shoulder brushing his chest. The movement feels uncalculated, something the body decides before the mind catches up. He lets me. His arm moves, slow and certain, wrapping around my shoulders. The weight of it settles me, quiets the space between heartbeats.

He says, “It’s gonna be okay.” The words vibrate against my temple, softer than any promise. His thumb traces an absent pattern along my arm — back and forth, the rhythm of breathing.

The city beyond the window keeps its own pulse: cars, sirens, the sound of water running through the gutters. It all feels far away, softened by the low hum of the TV and the warmth between us.

I match my breathing to his. Inhale, exhale. Again.

The light on the screen changes — from blue to gold, from gold to gray — sliding across the marigold on the windowsill. Its petals catch the faint glow, bending slightly toward it, as if remembering how to endure.

My eyes close. The sound of his heart steadies under my ear.

The world stays that way — rain quiet, air warm, both of us still enough for a long while — until sleep takes me, and the glow on the flower becomes the last thing I see.