My clothes are folded neatly on the end table, right next to my phone, which is dead. Classic.
The apartment is even more sterile in daylight. The kitchen is a surgical suite, the counters so clean they reflect the light.
There’s a coffee maker that probably costs more than my car, a row of matching mugs, and a single bowl with a banana in it, perfectly yellow, no blemishes, like it was photoshopped into existence.
A laptop sits open on the table, surrounded by a fortress of identical black notebooks, each one lined up with military precision.
I resist the urge to peek.
There’s a weird hum in my chest, a mix of hunger and dread.
I can’t tell if it’s just a blood sugar crash or something worse.
Vincent emerges from the bedroom wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, hair perfectly messy, skin flawless.
He sees me awake and grins, “Morning. Did you sleep?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Couch is great.”
He pours a cup of coffee, brings it over, and sits on the arm of the sofa, just far enough away that we’re not actually touching.
I take the cup, burn my tongue on the first sip, but it’s better than speaking.
“Busy day?” I say, just to fill the space.
He shrugs. “Not really. I work from home most mornings. Keeps me ahead of the assholes.”
I nod, but my mind is somewhere else. I’m thinking about Darius, about how right now he’d be lacing up at the gym, abouthow by this hour we’d be three miles into a run and trash-talking each other about who looked worse in compression shorts.
I wonder if he slept at all. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or if he’s already moved on, erased the part of his brain where I used to fit.
Vincent notices the drift, and sets his cup down. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say again, but this time he narrows his eyes.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, voice softer than last night. “Nobody’s perfect at this.”
I almost ask, “At what?” but I know. At moving on. At making it look easy.
He stands, stretches, and says, “I can make eggs, if you want. Or I can call you a car.” It’s not rude. It’s efficient, like everything else about him.
“Eggs sound great,” I say, because it’s what you’re supposed to say.
I watch him move around the kitchen, every motion smooth, like he’s practiced for an audience.
I wonder if he does this every weekend, if there’s a script, if I’m just the latest in a string of guys who sat here, hungover and lost, waiting for the world to decide what comes next.
He cracks eggs, whisks them, pours them into a pan, all without missing a beat. “You want cheese?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He plates the food, brings it over, and we eat in silence.
The eggs are perfect, fluffy and rich, but they taste like nothing.
I force half of it down, then give up.
He notices, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sips his coffee, watches me over the rim.
