He walks to the balcony doors and just… stands there, staring. At first, I think he’s zoning out, but then I see the way his face goes blank, like somebody pulled the plug. No expression, nothing. He’s breathing too fast now. Short, sharp pulls of air.
My stomach knots. I don’t know what’s happening, but it feels wrong. Wrong enough that every instinct in me saysgo to him, put a hand on his shoulder, pull him back.But I don’t. I don’t know if I’m allowed.
“Gabe,” I whisper.
No reaction.
I clear my throat. He jumps like I fired a gun. His hand twitches up toward his scar, then falls before it makes contact.
“Sorry,” I blurt out, holding my hands up. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
He shakes his head quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but mine. “It’s okay. I just… didn’t hear you.”
And that worries me. I’m right beside him, but wherever he went, it wasn’t here.
I nod, moving to the cupboard where I’ve already claimed a mug, only to find it’s already on the counter, mint teabag steeping, the fresh aroma wafting into the air. I give him a smile in thanks.
“You’ve been up before me every morning since I moved in,” I say as I remove the teabag. “You ever sleep in?”
“Not if I can help it,” he mumbles, shaking his head. The wording makes me pause, but before I can think too hard about it, he continues, “I like the quiet of the morning. I get my run in and leave the back door of the store open while I’m gone. Get some fresh air in before opening.”
“I didn’t even notice a back door,” I admit, glancing toward the balcony. “Where’s it lead?”
“There’s a tiny, enclosed garden out there,” he says. “You can see it if you look down through the slats. I always said I’d do it up as a reading space people could enjoy during the summer, an extra space to use during events, but…” He lets his words fade off and shrugs. It’s almost like he’s saying it to himself and not me. Like it’s a dream he had that he’s already given up on.
I feel a pang in my heart looking at his face, sorrow etched into the green of his eyes. I could help him achieve some of them if he let me.
“Sounds like it could be nice,” I reply gently. He hums softly in response, eyes flicking to mine and away as quickly.
The light shifts across the kitchen tile, and Gabe steps right into it. For a second, I see him so clearly—sleep-ruffled and soft, made for quiet moments like this. But there’s something underneath it, too. The way his shoulders slump, the way his mouth presses tight after every pause. He carries his past like an invisible weight, even here, even now. There’s a shadow looming over him. And still… he hasn’t lost that gentleness. It’s right there, shining through.
I catch myself staring, and so does he. Face flushing, his eyes blink fast. “What?” he asks, a little defensive but more self-conscious than anything.
“Nothing. Just… you look all cozy in the mornings.”
And I wish I could wrap my arms around you while we stand in the sun together.
He gives the smallest laugh. It’s almost nothing, but it feels like I achieved something.
The notes start off practical. “Washed the towels.” “Bought oat milk.” “Cleaned the kitchen.”
At first, I didn’t think much of it. But after a few days, it clicks. His eyes flit to me every time he sees me reading a note, and his shoulders tense like he’s expecting a negative reaction.
Like he thinks hehasto do everything. And that realization makes me sick. Is this what he was living with before? Did that prick make Gabe do everything for him, and then if he didn’t… What?
I can’t even finish the thought.
It doesn’t sit right that he feels he needs to act like this with me. A part of me is hurt that he doesn’t trust me when we’ve known each other so long. Yeah, we haven’t spoken this last year, but he’s still Gabe, and I’m still me.
But I guess he doesn’t know that, does he? And he’s been treated badly in the past, that much is clear. I don’t know exactly what he’s been through, but he’s clearly trying to protect himself in some way.
I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m still the silly idiot who grew up with his family. I can be over the top and loud at times, but I’d never harm anyone. Especially not him.
So, I start leaving replies.
On the oat milk: “You’reoatof this world!”
Yeah, I know how terrible it is—it’s possibly the worst thing I’ve ever written in my life — but the next morning, when he sees it, there’s the smallest smile tugging at his mouth as he shakes his head at me. I can’t find it in me to be embarrassed.
