Not loaded. Not careful in a way that feels like fear. Just… checking.
“I’m good,” I say. And then, because it’s true, “You?”
“Same,” he replies. “Let me know if that changes.”
I nod.
His eyes flick to the flowers. He doesn’t comment right away.
“Thank you,” I say. “For those.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Alex knows how to keep them alive longer,” I add. “He’s taken this on as a personal mission.”
That earns a smile. Small. Real.
“Of course he has.”
“He’s aggressive about his blooms.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The exchange settles easily. No awkwardness. No overcorrection.
“I wanted to make sure you knew,” he says, “that there’s no expectation attached to any of this.”
I meet his gaze. He’s not asking for reassurance. He’s stating a boundary.
“I know,” I say.
“Good.”
He shifts slightly, like he’s about to leave.
“There’s a board call this afternoon,” he says. “Chuck’s name came up. I shut it down.”
No drama. No heroics.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods once. “I’ll see you later.”
And then he does something that matters more than any of the words.
He leaves.
He does it a lot after that.
Not every day. Not on a schedule. But often enough that I notice.
He’ll pause at my doorway, head tipped just inside the frame.
“How’s it going.”
Or, “You need anything before I disappear.”
Sometimes I say no. Sometimes I ask a question. Sometimes I just look up and nod.
