"And now?"
"Now it's mine."
I hummed a few bars, soft and low.
"I reclaimed it."
"How?"
"I don't know. I just... decided. That it was mine. That it didn't belong to him anymore. That I could use it the way I wanted to, not the way he wanted me to."
"That sounds like healing."
"It sounds like survival."
"Same thing."
He made coffee.
I watched him move around the kitchenette—measured the grounds, poured the water, pressed the button. The machine whirred to life, filling the bar with the scent of dark roast and something else, something that reminded me of mornings.
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about something."
"What?"
"The movies. You mentioned it a while ago. That we should go sometime."
"I remember."
"I think I'd like that."
He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable.
"You want to go to the movies?"
"Yes."
"With me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I've never been. Not that I can remember. And I want to. And I want to go with you."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—small, almost shy, the kind of smile that made him look younger.
"Okay. We'll go. This week. Pick a night."
"I don't know what's playing."
"Neither do I. We'll figure it out together."
He poured the coffee into two mugs and carried them to the bar.
