When I got home that night, the apartment smelled like garlic and herbs. Tobias was on the couch, reading, but he looked up the moment the door opened. His face lit up—actually lit up, as if seeing me was the best part of his day.
"There's soup on the stove," he said. "I can heat it up for you."
"I ate at the hotel."
The light dimmed. Just slightly, but I saw it.
"Oh. Okay." He turned back to his book. "I'll put it in the fridge. For tomorrow, maybe."
I should sit down, talk to him, acknowledge that something had shifted between us, and figure out what to do about it.
Instead, I went to the bathroom and took a long shower. When I came out, he was still on the couch, but he had stopped pretending to read. He was just sitting there, staring at the wall.
"You okay?"
"Fine." He didn't look at me. "Just tired."
The silence stretched between us. I wanted to cross the room, sit beside him, and pick up where we'd left off last night. But that was exactly the problem. I wanted it too much.
"Good night," I said.
"Good night."
I lay on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and listened to the sound of him getting ready for bed: the bathroom door, water running, the soft click of the bedroom door closing.
The distance between us had never felt so vast.
The pattern started to set in after that.
I'd leave early—not as early as that first morning, but before he was fully awake. He'd be in the kitchen making coffee when I left, and I'd grab my jacket and mumble something about a busy day. He'd nod, smile, and tell me to have a good shift.
Every morning, he'd have something ready: coffee in a travel mug, toast wrapped in a napkin. Once, a warm scrambled egg sandwich that I bit into at the hotel.
I'd take these offerings and leave without sitting down, without looking at him too long, without letting myself want.
And every evening, I'd come home to find dinner waiting.
He never stopped trying. No matter how many times I deflected, how many meals I claimed to have eaten at the hotel, how many conversations I cut short—he kept trying.
Risotto he'd practiced all afternoon. Roasted chicken with vegetables arranged like a restaurant plate. Pasta with homemade sauce because he'd found a recipe online and wanted to see if he could do it.
"You don't have to cook for me," I told him one night, standing in the kitchen doorway while he stirred something that smelled incredible.
"I know." He didn't look up. "I like cooking."
"You never cooked before you came here."
"I never had anyone to cook for."
The words landed in my chest and stayed there.
He started leaving things for me to find.
Not gifts—he couldn't buy anything without using my money, and he seemed to understand that would cross a line. But small, thoughtful things.
My books, reorganized by author instead of the chaotic pile they had been. He'd clearly sorted them, probably read the back covers of each one.
A sketch left on the coffee table. Just a simple drawing on a sheet torn from the legal pad: the rooftop across the street, the way the chimney intersected with the sky. He hadn't signed it or mentioned it. Just left it for me to find.
