Julian woke before the sun. The quiet of Celeste’s apartment always unnerved him a little, as if the space were waiting for her permission to come alive. The air was still and cold. Her side of the bed was empty.

  Not unusual.

  He sat up, blinking the heaviness from his eyes. A strange dream clung to the edges of his thoughts, something about water, about sinking. He couldn’t hold onto it. Only the lingering feeling remained; need, maybe, or loss.

  The bedroom door was cracked open. From the living room came the faintest sound: ice shifting in gss, the soft scrape of fabric.

  He followed it.

  Celeste stood by the window, wrapped in a thin bck robe, her silhouette outlined by the first gray blush of dawn. She didn’t turn when he entered. A low jazz record pyed somewhere in the background, its notes curling zily through the quiet like smoke.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  She sipped her drink before replying. “You talk in your sleep.”

  Julian paused. “What did I say?”

  Her lips quirked at the corner. “My name. Twice. Then you said ‘please.’”

  His face warmed. “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t need to,” she said lightly, swirling the drink in her hand. “Dreams only mean what you want them to mean.”

  He came closer, unsure if she wanted company or just allowed it. There was always a line with her, invisible but sharp, and he didn’t always know where it was.

  Celeste gnced at him then. “You’re quiet in the mornings.”

  “I guess I don’t know what to say around you sometimes.”

  “I like that,” she said. “There’s too much noise everywhere else. It’s nice to have someone who knows how to be still.”

  She set her gss down on the windowsill and stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the colr of his T-shirt. The gesture was small, almost absentminded. But his pulse reacted anyway.

  “I thought about you while you were sleeping,” she said, fingers brushing briefly against his neck. “You looked peaceful. Like someone who trusts too easily.”

  Julian smiled faintly. “Do I?”

  Celeste tilted her head, as if inspecting a painting. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just tired of resisting everything all the time.”

  He didn’t answer. Her hand lingered on his chest, and he could feel her pulse through her fingers. Or maybe it was his.

  She stepped back just as suddenly. “Breakfast?”

  Julian blinked. “I could make something.”

  Celeste’s smile was soft this time. “You’re sweet when you’re uncertain.”

  She left the room, barefoot and quiet, the hem of her robe trailing behind her like ink in water. He watched her go, unsure if she’d meant it as praise or something else entirely.

  Still, he felt lighter. Or maybe just more awake.

  And as he moved toward the kitchen, he realized he hadn’t asked her what she’d dreamed about. He never did.

  Julian moved around Celeste’s kitchen with quiet hands. Everything here had a pce. The counters were spotless, the knives all perfectly aligned in their magnetic rack, and the fridge stocked with things that looked curated more than purchased. He always felt like a guest here, even when she said he wasn’t.

  He cracked two eggs into a bowl and whisked them slowly, listening for her footsteps but hearing nothing. The quiet unnerved him less this morning. Maybe he was getting used to it.

  The scent of toasted sourdough and melting butter began to fill the space, grounding him. He pted the food carefully, as if she might be judging the symmetry. She never said she cared, but he still made sure.

  She appeared behind him just as he set the ptes down.

  “You’re always so careful,” Celeste said, her voice like silk against gss.

  Julian turned to see her leaning in the doorway, still barefoot, still in that robe. Her hair was loose now, and she had added a touch of red to her lips.

  “I didn’t want to mess anything up,” he said.

  “You never do,” she said simply, crossing to the table and sitting. “You worry about that a lot, don’t you?”

  He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

  Celeste took a bite of the toast, chewing slowly. “You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

  Julian sat across from her. “It’s not about being perfect. I just want to get it right.”

  Her gaze lifted from her pte. “What is ‘right,’ though? Do you even know?”

  “I think I do. Or I think I’d know it if I felt it.”

  Celeste smiled. “Then I hope I never feel right to you. That would make this very boring.”

  He ughed quietly, unsure if she was joking. She often said things that lingered, light as air and twice as difficult to grasp.

  They ate in silence for a while. The clink of forks against porcein, the soft hum of morning traffic outside, and the subtle scratch of a jazz record looping from the living room filled the space between them.

  When the ptes were nearly empty, Celeste spoke again.

  “Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You looked scared. Not in a dramatic way. Just quiet. Hesitant.”

  “I was.”

  “And yet, you didn’t leave.”

  Julian looked down at his hands. “You made it hard to.”

  She reached across the table and gently took his wrist. Her touch was always so controlled, like every movement had a purpose. She ran her thumb slowly over the inside of his arm, tracing the veins as if they were a map she was memorizing.

  “I wonder,” she said softly, “if you know what keeps you here.”

  Julian met her eyes. “I think I do.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “No.”

  Celeste nodded once, as if that satisfied something in her. She let go of his wrist and stood, collecting both ptes with an ease that made him feel momentarily guilty.

  “I’ll wash these,” he offered.

  She paused. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  She gave him that unreadable look again, part amusement and part study. Then she stepped aside and let him pass.

  As Julian turned on the faucet and began rinsing, he could feel her watching him.

  Like he was her possession.