Ken suggested a walk, nothing fancy, just through the old town, past the market, the small bakery, the quiet riverwalk.
I didn't protest.
Mostly because I was curious.
And curiosity, I realized, was starting to feel… dangerous.
He moved at an easy pace, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes scanning the streets as if he belonged to the rhythm of this place.
I followed, cap low, hoodie drawn tight, boots clicking softly on the uneven cobblestones.
The market was lively but calm compared to the city chaos I was used to.
Vendors called out their prices, people haggled over vegetables and fruits, children ran along the sides of stalls, laughing.
I stayed silent, watching Ken interact with a fruit vendor, asking about apples, smiling politely, nodding.
The simplicity of it made my chest tighten in a way I didn't expect.
"I like this town," he said quietly, as if reading my thoughts.
"I don't care about towns," I replied flatly.
He didn't argue.
Just looked at me for a moment, that subtle flicker in his gaze, like he understood more than I wanted him to.
We walked along the riverwalk next.
The water reflected the late afternoon light, rippling softly.
A breeze brushed past, carrying the faint scent of the nearby bakery.
"You're quiet again," he said.
"I'm always quiet," I said.
"You're not," he countered, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You think you are. But sometimes, you're… unpredictable."
I glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "Unpredictable?"
"Yes," he said simply. "Like this morning. You came jogging with me. Not because you wanted to, but because you chose to. That's… rare."
I didn't reply.
I focused on the river instead, watching a small boat drift slowly.
I didn't want him to see me soften.
Eventually, we ended up at the bakery he liked.
Inside, it smelled of fresh bread, sugar, and cinnamon.
He ordered two pastries and coffee.
I didn't care much for sweets, but I took one anyway, more to occupy my hands than for taste.
We sat by the window.
Outside, the town moved lazily.
People walked by, indifferent to us.
"Do you ever feel… stuck?" I asked suddenly, almost accidentally.
Ken looked at me, calm, steady. "Sometimes. Why?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Life can get… heavy. Even when you try to stay in motion, sometimes it feels like you're moving through syrup."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I know the feeling. That's why I run, even when I don't want to. Keeps me moving. Keeps me… aware."
I stared at him.
Not sure if I believed him.
But I liked that he didn't try to fix it, didn't offer solutions.
Just… acknowledged it.
Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones.
The light was softer now, fading into a pale gold that made everything look older, gentler.
Ken walked beside me, occasionally glancing at my face.
I kept my cap low, hoodie drawn tight, pretending I didn't notice.
"You don't talk much," he said.
"I talk when it matters," I said.
"Does it matter?"
I didn't answer.
We ended up back at his apartment, just before sunset.
He put the kettle on, coffee again, the ritual comforting in its simplicity.
I perched on the counter, watching him move.
Frying pan in hand, pouring hot water, stirring sugar.
His hands were steady.
Deliberate.
I felt something… shift in me.
Something I didn't want to name.
"You've been… different these past few days," he said softly, not looking at me.
"I don't know what you mean," I said flatly.
"Yes, you do," he said, calm. "You've been… here. With me. Around me. Observing. Choosing to be present."
I shrugged. "Maybe I like observing."
"Maybe," he said, glancing at me with a small smile. "Or maybe you're starting to trust me. A little."
I didn't respond.
I sipped my coffee, letting the silence stretch.
But for the first time in a long time, I felt… ease.
Not safety.
Not comfort.
Not friendship.
But… less weight.
And I hated that I liked it.
The evening came slowly.
The streets outside were quiet now, lanterns flickering along the paths.
The air smelled of baked bread, damp earth, and something faintly sweet, cinnamon from the bakery, or maybe from the river. I wasn't sure.
We sat together on the balcony again, coffee cups warm in our hands, silent except for the hum of the town below.
"You've been watching me," Ken said suddenly, not accusatory, not teasing. Just… observing.
"I observe people," I said flatly.
He smiled faintly. "Careful. You might start understanding them."
I turned my gaze to the darkening sky, not answering.
Hours later, when it was almost dark, I realized that I hadn't thought about Drake once.
Not once.
And that… was something.
Something dangerous, because it meant my attention was shifting.
Slowly.
Subtly.
But undeniably.
And I didn't know what to do with it.
Not yet.