(Rebecca's POV)
I walk into Connie's apartment. Drop my bag. Stand in the middle of the living room with no idea what my hands are for.
No dinner to time. No shirts to iron. No coffee to make. No schedule to check. No calendar to update. No filing system to maintain for a man who never once asked how it worked. My hands hang at my sides — tools returned to a bench. Fingers loose, palms open. The muscles in my forearms still tight from six years of use and nothing — nothing — to close around.
I don't sit. I don't take off my shoes. I stand on Connie's thin carpet and the apartment is too big. The ceiling too high. The walls too far apart. Everything in here is still and flat and waiting, and my body doesn't know what to do with a room that isn't asking anything of me.
My fingers twitch.
