My shirts in the closet, ironed and hung in order. When had he learned to iron? Had he watched a tutorial, the same way he'd learned to cook?
Each small gesture was an offering. A way of sayingI'm still here. I still want to be here. Please let me stay.
And each time I pretended not to notice, something in his expression dimmed a little more.
I caught him waiting up for me once.
It was later than usual—past eleven, because I'd volunteered for overtime I didn't need. When I opened the door, the living room was dark except for a single lamp. Tobias was on the couch, book open in his lap, but his eyes were closed. He'd fallen asleep waiting.
I stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way the lamplight caught his hair, the soft, unguarded expression on his face.
He looked younger while he slept. Vulnerable. Like the weight of everything he carried finally got to set down.
I should wake him. Send him to bed. Maintain the distance I'd been so carefully keeping.
Instead, I found a blanket and draped it over him. My hand brushed his shoulder, just barely, and he stirred.
"Vance?"
"Go back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
"Late. You should be in bed."
He blinked up at me, still half-asleep, and for a moment, the walls between us dissolved. He looked at me the way he had during the blackout—like I was something worth wanting, something worth waiting for.
"I wanted to see you," he said softly. "You've been gone so much."
"I know. Work's been—"
"It's not work." He sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. "You're avoiding me."
The accusation hung in the air. True. Undeniable.
"I'm not—"
"You are. And I don't understand why." His voice was quiet, but something raw lay underneath. "Did I do something wrong? That night during the storm—did I say or do something—"
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why won't you look at me anymore?"
I didn't have an answer. Not one I could give him.
"Go to bed, Tobias."
I turned away before I could see his expression. I went to the bathroom and stayed there until I heard the bedroom door close.
When I came out, the sketch was gone from the coffee table. He'd taken it back.
After that, things got worse.
He still cooked, but the meals became simpler. Eggs and toast instead of elaborate dinners. Quick things that didn't require hours of effort, things that wouldn't hurt as much if I refused to eat them.
He stopped leaving sketches. Stopped reorganizing my things. Stopped waiting up.
The apartment was clean, quiet, and felt like a tomb.
