Louis's (Third POV)
His apartment was quiet.
Not the uncomfortable quiet of a space that had never learned to hold a person properly. The settled quiet of somewhere that had been lived in alone for long enough that the solitude had become structural. Part of the walls. Part of the light. Part of the way the morning came in through the east window and moved across the floor at the angle it had always moved at because no one else's furniture had ever redirected it.
Louis sat in the chair by the window.
He was still.
This was unusual for him in the specific way that stillness was unusual for people whose natural register was movement and presence and the forward momentum of someone who had always understood that occupying space fully was its own kind of power.
He was not occupying space
