I had just stepped out of my apartment when I saw Ken already stretching near the small park by the river.
The air smelled faintly of damp earth and grass, and the town was still quiet, a few early risers, a dog walker, a lone motorbike humming in the distance.
"You're up early," I said, voice flat, pulling my hoodie tighter around me.
He smiled faintly. "Morning jog. You should come. You need it."
I raised an eyebrow. "I need it?"
"Yes," he said, matter-of-fact, as if it were obvious. "Sitting around won't help you. You need to move. Clear your head."
I studied him for a long moment.
He wasn't smiling in the teasing way he sometimes did.
This was serious.
Firm.
But calm.
Professional, almost.
I shrugged. "Fine. I'll jog."
The first steps were the hardest.
My lungs burned immediately, my muscles complaining.
But I didn't stop.
Not because I wanted to impress him, I didn't care about that, but because I refused to let anything slow me down.
Ken fell into step beside me, not matching stride for stride, but close enough that we moved together without needing to talk.
"You're tense," he said quietly.
"Not tense," I said through gritted teeth.
"You are," he said, matter-of-fact. "You're holding back. Breath shallow, shoulders tight."
I ignored him, focusing on the rhythm of my boots against the path, the sound of my own heartbeat.
But still, he didn't leave.
He just… existed beside me, calm, unassuming.
After a while, he spoke again. "See? Easier once you move. Heart beats faster, but it feels better than standing still."
I glanced at him briefly. "You sound like a trainer."
"Maybe I am," he said lightly. "But you're doing fine. Better than fine."
We jogged until the sun was higher, brushing the tops of the trees with gold.
My lungs had started to adjust, the initial pain fading into a dull, manageable burn.
And yet, every time I looked at him, there was that quiet steadiness, that calm energy that made the burn feel worth it.
When we finally slowed to a walk, I leaned against the railing by the river, hair damp from sweat, cap sticking to my forehead.
"You're insane," I muttered.
"You mean it's not good for you?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.
I shook my head. "You're insane for dragging me out here."
"Maybe," he said, smiling faintly. "But you needed it."
I didn't argue.
–
After jogging, Ken insisted we go for breakfast.
I didn't complain, not because I liked it, but because there was something about the morning that felt… neutral, safe even.
Just him, me, and the quiet of the town.
Inside his apartment, the kitchen smelled like toast, coffee, and something faintly sweet.
He moved with that calm precision I'd noticed before, pulling eggs from the fridge, butter from the cabinet, coffee beans from the grinder.
I perched on the counter, arms crossed, still distant, still cold, still not letting him see anything that might look like softness.
"You're quiet today," he said, without looking up.
"I'm always quiet," I replied.
"Not true," he said, cracking an egg into the pan. "Sometimes you're… unpredictable. You keep people on edge."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do I?"
"Yes." He glanced at me, and I caught that flicker, that subtle, measured look he gave me sometimes, like he was trying to understand how I worked. "It keeps things… interesting."
I said nothing, focusing on the window instead, watching a bird hop along the power line outside.
Breakfast was simple.
Toast, eggs, coffee.
I ate slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch between us.
Every now and then, I stole a glance at him, the way his hands moved, the small crease in his forehead when he measured ingredients, the calm way he existed in a space that, in the past, I would have considered too ordinary.
"Food's ready," he said finally, sliding a plate toward me.
I nodded, taking the eggs, tasting them.
They were perfectly cooked.
Not that it mattered, but perfection in ordinary things had a way of being… disarming.
He poured himself coffee and sat across from me, quiet, patient.
We ate together in silence, two people sharing a space, neither needing to fill it with words.
And somehow, that silence wasn't suffocating. It was… enough.
We lingered over coffee cups, then moved to the small balcony outside his apartment.
He pulled a chair close to mine, leaned back, letting the breeze brush past him.
I stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching the street below.
At one point, he reached over and handed me a small piece of paper.
"For later," he said softly.
I looked at it.
Just a note, directions to a bakery he liked, a park path he jogged sometimes, a small sketch of the route.
Neutral.
Thoughtful.
Not intrusive.
I pocketed it without a word.
We didn't talk much, but presence mattered.
Sitting there, side by side, the town moving slowly below us, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time: calm.
Not safety, exactly.
Not trust.
Not even comfort.
But… stillness.
And for someone like me, that was rare.
Rare enough to notice.