O QUE RESTOU DE NÓS

Adrian's bedroom door was open. Mael noticed before he even reached the end of the hallway and slowed his steps out of habit, not necessity. He had known that house well enough for three years to walk through it in the dark. Even so, some boundaries still demanded the same caution from him as they had during the first month. The door on the left was one of them. Adrian stood in front of the mirror, finishing buttoning his shirt. His dark jacket rested on the bed beside two ties. Mael passed the open door without asking where he was going. He knew Adrian's preferences well enough to know which tie he would choose; Adrian, on the other hand, probably couldn't have said which client had occupied Mael's morning. Neither of them said anything. Mael continued down the hall. In his own room, he closed the door and set his leather portfolio on the desk. He needed to change. He had spent the morning at a job site, part of the afternoon arguing over the shade of a wood finish the supplier insisted was identical to the sample, and the last forty minutes stuck in traffic. At seven, he needed to be somewhere else. He took his phone from his pocket. Three messages from the client. One from Camille. Two photographs from the carpenter. None required an immediate reply. Mael set the phone down and opened the wardrobe. He chose a light-colored shirt and, while changing, heard footsteps in the hallway. Adrian walked past without stopping. There was nothing unusual about that. The house had enough space for two people to live together without having to share a life. At first, Mael had believed that would change. Later, he learned that expectation could become furniture too: leave it in a corner long enough and one day you stopped noticing it was there. When he went downstairs, Adrian was in the living room. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. That made Mael check the time. 6:17 p.m. Adrian held his phone in one hand. His thumb moved across the screen and, for a moment, something different appeared on his face. Not a smile. Mael knew Adrian's smiles. They were too rare to mistake. This was attention. Mael crossed the living room toward the console table, picked up his keys, and headed for the door. Adrian didn't ask where he was going. Mael didn't volunteer the information either. The phone vibrated. Adrian looked at it immediately. It was a small movement. Automatic. But Mael saw it. He always did. He was already near the door when he heard Adrian's voice again. "Julian." Mael stopped. Not because Adrian had called him. Adrian had answered the phone. "I thought you'd be asleep." His voice was different. Not louder. Not softer. Simply present. Mael remained still for a fraction of a second, then opened the door. He didn't need to hear the rest. He knew that difference too. "You're telling me you want to put marble in a living room where two children, four and six years old, spend half the day running around?" The client blinked. "When you put it that way, it sounds like a bad idea." "Because it is a bad idea." She laughed. Mael turned the floor plan around on the table. The office was nearly empty by then. Beyond the windows, the city lights were beginning to appear. On the table lay samples of wood, fabric, stone, and three cups of coffee no one had dared clear away during the meeting. Mael pointed to the central area of the plan.