She made coffee in his kitchen like she lived there.
Maybe she did. Maybe she always had. Maybe the apartment had been waiting for her to come back the way the bed had — patient, half-warm, never quite right without her in it.
She wore his shirt and nothing under it. He watched her measure grounds with the same precision she used to apply lipstick when she was trying to mean something specific.
“Stay,” he said.
“I’m here.”
“Stay longer.”
She turned, the morning light cutting her in half. “How long?”
“All of it.”
She didn’t answer. She just poured two cups.