I pour myself a cup of coffee and stand there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the warmth settle into my hands while I take in the space around me.
I noticed his penthouse last night, felt it more than saw it, but in daylight it looks different. Softer. Calmer. The sharp edges blur, the shadows retreat. It almost feels peaceful.
Almost.
I drift through the living area slowly, coffee cradled in one hand, my other hand trailing behind me. My fingers skim over smooth surfaces, stone, leather, glass, like I’m learning the shape of him through the things he leaves behind. Everything here is deliberate. Ordered. Nothing looks lived in by accident.
In the centre of the room sits a massive black couch, positioned with purpose, facing a sleek feature wall and mounted television. A dark coffee table anchors it.
Something pale breaks the symmetry.
A manila envelope.
I stop short.
It doesn’t look staged. It doesn’t look like it was left out for me. If anything, it looks forgotten, set down without thought, like it was never meant to be noticed at all.
My pulse picks up.
I move closer despite myself.
Two names are written across the front in neat, unmistakable handwriting.
Khai. Liam.
My breath catches.
Liam.
The name hums with weight I don’t yet understand. It feels personal. Private. Like something I shouldn’t even be reading, let alone standing over. A quiet certainty settles in my chest:
I wasn’t meant to see this.
This isn’t an invitation.
It’s an oversight.
I stand there, coffee cooling in my hand, staring down at the envelope while a slow, uneasy tension coils inside me. Curiosity presses hard, insistent and sharp, but so does restraint. The instinct to step back. To respect the line I didn’t know was there until now.
Khai hasn’t told me everything about himself. Not yet.
I told myself that was something I could wait for, that trust would come with time, that he’d let me in when he was ready. But standing here, staring down at the envelope, patience feels thin and brittle.
This feels… closer than he’s meant to let me be.
He wouldn’t have left it out if it was private,I reason quietly, clinging to the thought like permission.If it mattered that much, he’d have hidden it.
The lie sounds convincing enough in my head.
I kneel beside the table and set my coffee down carefully, the porcelain clicking too loud in the stillness. My fingers hover for a moment before they skim the edge of the envelope, light and cautious, like it might bite if I touch it too firmly.
The paper is thicker than I expect.
That’s when I notice the date, written smaller beneath the names.
9 July 2015.
My breath stills.
