“Four,” he said, like the decision had already settled.
We moved through the store without discussing it, falling into the same beat we always fell into, where one of us slowed and the other adjusted without needing to acknowledge it. We stayed just within each other’s space, not touching, but close enough that the distance never felt accidental.
“She asked about you,” he said.
I picked up a throw from a nearby display, running my hand across the fabric before setting it back.
“Why?”
“I told her about WaxCon,” he said. “How we went together.”
I glanced at him. “What did you say?”
“That you’re one of my closest friends.”
I nodded once.Closest friends. He wasn’t wrong, as that was definitely an accurate way to put it. Complete, even, but not helpful.
“I hope I sounded charming.”
“She said you sounded like trouble.”
“Oh?”
“The good kind,” he added, adjusting one of the items in the cart like it needed straightening.
I didn’t respond. He held up two throws a second later, one practical, one better.
“That one feels safe,” I said, stepping closer to look at both. “The other one is the one I’d go with if I were you.”
He watched me for half a second, then placed the better option in the cart without comment. I grabbed the same one and tossed it into his cart for myself.
We kept moving, and somehow we ended up back in seating again, in a section where two chairs had been angled toward each other like a conversation had already been planned. We sat without testing them this time, just settling into the space like it had already decided what it was for.
“You should get both of these,” I said.
He glanced over. “I only need one more.”
“Just one?”
“That’s what I said, Nova.” His tone didn’t shift, just settled there, steady and already decided. “I don’t know if the area can hold more than that right now.”
“Oh.”
Something in me stilled at that, quiet but immediate. I looked at the setup again. Two chairs, angled toward eachother, close enough to suggest something that stayed. Not passing through. Not temporary. He had already figured out what fit. One more. I let my gaze settle on the second chair, the one we were not talking about anymore. The one that had been part of the arrangement until it wasn’t.
It wasn’t about seating. It was the shape of it. The way it read without explanation. Two places, accounted for. Or one, if that was all you needed. I leaned back slightly, like that might help me hear it differently. It didn’t.
There had been a time when something like this would have been a conversation. Not because he couldn’t decide on his own, but because I was part of how he decided. I didn’t get added after. I was already there, somewhere in the middle of it, before anything was set.
I looked at the second chair again. And for a second, quick enough that I could have denied it if I needed to, it felt like I was looking at a version of his life that didn’t require me to exist in it. I sat up.
“You should get both anyway,” I said.
He looked at me, not pushing back, just waiting. “Why?”
I opened my mouth, already knowing I wasn’t going to say what I meant, and closed it again before anything useful could come out.
“Resale value,” I said. “People usually buy seating in pairs.”
