The shift did not announce itself with drama.
It arrived in the ordinary quiet of a Tuesday evening while the kettle finished its cycle and the residual cold from the walk still lived in the sleeves of my jacket. I had been coming to the apartment for weeks by then. The route was muscle memory. The porch light was always on. The door opened before I finished the second knock. What had changed was the temperature of the air between us once the door closed—less like a negotiation, more like a held breath that both of us had stopped pretending was sustainable.
Damian was in the kitchen when I arrived, sleeves pushed up, the faded ghost of the old bruise still faintly visible along his jaw. He glanced over his shoulder and did the inventory he always did: eyes, posture, the exact set of my m
