"Adrian?"

  He didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a quiet hum, his gaze resting quietly on my face.

  For a moment, neither of us moved. The weight of five years settled between us, tangible yet impossible to define.

  Then, he tilted his head slightly, his voice calm yet familiar. "Aren't we going in?"

  I blinked, snapping out of my trance. "Oh. Right. Come in."

  Stepping aside, I let him in, and as he passed, a faint scent lingered—clean and fresh, like sun-warmed cotton with a trace of soap. It was oddly familiar, yet distant, like a melody I almost remembered.

  ...

  I led him down the hall, hyper-aware of every step, every breath. The apartment wasn't big, but it felt even smaller with him here.

  "This is your room."

  I stopped at the st door, pushing it open.

  The room wasn't rge, but it was cozy—the way I had carefully arranged it earlier, making sure everything felt just right. Sunlight streamed through two tall windows, casting shifting shadows from the tree branches outside. A simple desk stood by the far wall, next to a wardrobe big enough for all his belongings. The bed—a full-sized single—sat neatly in the corner, its fresh sheets untouched, like an unopened chapter.

  I gnced at him, waiting for some kind of reaction.

  Adrian stepped inside, his movements unhurried. He looked around, taking in the details—not with the detached scrutiny of a stranger, but with a quiet sort of familiarity, like he was letting the space settle around him.

  His shoulders rexed, his expression shifting into something softer. "Feels nice."

  Something in me loosened. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath.

  I cleared my throat. "You can unpack or take a shower if you want. Dinner's at six—think of it as a welcome meal."

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Got it. Thanks."

  I nodded quickly and turned to leave, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary.

  Only when I was alone did I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingers against my temples.

  This was going to take some getting used to.

  ...

  By the time I returned from running errands, Adrian had already made himself at home.

  He stood by his wardrobe, casually rolling up the sleeves of his navy-blue T-shirt. His movements were unhurried, effortless—like someone who had already adapted to his surroundings.

  Hearing me enter, he turned, gss of water in hand. "Need any help?"

  His voice was easy, natural. As if we had never spent years apart.

  "No, no, you've been traveling all day. You should rest."

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gave a small nod. "Alright."

  I carried the grocery bags into the kitchen and got to work.

  The truth? I was a terrible cook. Most of what I'd bought were pre-made dishes that only required minimal effort. Since moving in, my meals had consisted of takeout and instant noodles. But today, for some reason, I'd made an effort—semi-prepared or not, at least it looked like a real dinner.

  I gnced toward his room. The door was half-open.

  He moved easily within the space, bending down to pull out more clothes from his suitcase. His loose T-shirt lifted slightly as he reached up, revealing a glimpse of his waistline, the subtle contours of his back outlined beneath the fabric—lean, strong, but not overly built.

  I turned back to the stove so fast I nearly knocked over the salt shaker.

  What the hell was that?

  Time had a strange way of shifting things. One moment, it felt like nothing had changed, like we were still kids sharing zy summer afternoons. The next, I was standing in my kitchen, fighting the urge to stare at the boy I used to know—the one who somehow grew into this.

  The pot of water began to boil over, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  I cursed under my breath, quickly turning down the heat. Focus, Ellie.

  The apartment had gone quiet, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the wardrobe. I was just draining the pasta when I heard footsteps behind me.

  "Need any help?"

  His voice was close—closer than I expected.

  I turned slightly, finding him standing just a step behind me. He was barefoot, sleeves still pushed up, looking more at ease than I felt.

  "No, no, I'm almost done."

  He didn't leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, his presence steady but unassuming.

  "I finished unpacking. No point just standing around."

  I hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. You can set the table. The bowls are in the left cabinet, forks and spoons in the first drawer in the middle."

  "Got it."

  He moved smoothly through the space, as if he had always belonged there.

  For a moment, the silence between us felt almost comfortable, settling like an old, half-forgotten rhythm.

  "You used to like drawing, right?" I asked, scooping the pasta into a bowl. "Do you still do that?"

  Adrian gnced up briefly before setting down the st pte. "Sometimes. But I got more into photography."

  "Photography?"

  He nodded. "Yeah. Started when we moved to Australia. Guess it stuck."

  I blinked. "Wait. That makes so much sense. You used to run around with a camera all the time as a kid."

  He let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. Back then, I just wanted to impress you."

  My hands stilled.

  Adrian didn't seem to notice—he had already turned back to the table, adjusting the pcement of a gss. But for a split second, his words hung between us, sinking in.

  I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Well, you did. I still have your photos, you know."

  Adrian's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, his fingers briefly tightening around the gss before he let go.

  He didn't look at me right away. Instead, he shifted slightly, reaching for a napkin that didn't need adjusting. "You do?"His voice was steady, but the tips of his ears had turned faintly pink.

  I blinked, caught off guard by the reaction. "Of course. They were a gift from you."

  He exhaled lightly, something almost imperceptible in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something quieter.

  "I didn't think you'd keep them."

  His voice was soft, and for some reason, it made my chest feel strangely tight.

  I shrugged, keeping my tone casual. "Why wouldn't I?"

  For a moment, he just looked at me—like he wanted to say something else. But instead, he gave a small shake of his head, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

  "No reason."

  Then, as if the conversation had never shifted, he reached for the st pte, setting it down with quiet ease.

  The moment passed, slipping into something lighter.

  As we sat down to eat, the years of distance weren't gone, but they were beginning to dissolve, bit by bit.

  One meal at a time.