"Where? Hidden in a secret compartment?" I open his closet. Five shirts, three pairs of pants, one suit still in dry cleaning plastic. "This is it?"
"I don't need much."
"This is sad, Thatcher. This is actively depressing." I close the closet. "You've lived here how long?"
"Few years."
"And you haven't unpacked?"
He shifts his weight. "I'm unpacked. This is unpacked."
"This is still in boxes emotionally even if it's physically here." I sit on the edge of his bed. "When Suzy died, did you get rid of everything?"
His expression goes carefully neutral. "This isn't about Suzy."
"It's a little about Suzy. You're living like you're deployed. Like you're going to ship out any day and don't want attachments."
"Or I'm just practical."
"Nobody's this practical. This is—" I gesture around the room. "This is commitment issues manifested as minimalism."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "You psychoanalyzing me, Doc?"
"I'm observing that your living space looks like a hotel room and wondering if that's intentional."
"It's efficient."
"It's lonely."
The word hangs between us. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue.
"Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen," he says finally. "I'll make coffee."
He leaves. I sit there on his bed, surrounded by his carefully controlled space, and realize I've touched a nerve.
Good. He's been touching mine all day.
I unpack, putting clothes in the drawers he cleared, hanging what needs hanging. The ensuite is clean but basic—one set of towels, military-issue everything. I arrange my things on the empty counter, set out my toiletries.
It feels too intimate. My shampoo next to his soap. My toothbrush in the holder next to where his will go.
Days or weeks of this. Of living in his space, sleeping in his bed, existing in this strange forced proximity.
I find him in the kitchen, coffee already brewed. He hands me a mug.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We stand there in awkward silence. The anger from earlier has faded, leaving just exhaustion and the reality of this situation.
"I'm sorry," I say finally. "About the stuff I said. About your space being lonely."
"You weren't wrong."
"Still. It wasn't my place."
"You're living here now. Temporarily," he adds. "That makes it your place to comment."
