The evening air was cool, carrying the faint scent of flowers from the small gardens lining the street.
I stood outside Ken's apartment building, hands tucked into the pockets of my hoodie, cap pulled low.
I had no urgent reason to be here.
I didn't need to be here.
And yet… I was waiting.
Time passed slowly.
Streetlights flickered on, casting long, soft shadows across the sidewalk.
The faint murmur of neighbors going about their evening lives drifted past.
My fingers tightened around the straps of my bag as I scanned the quiet street, heart betraying the calm exterior I had carefully maintained.
A soft sound of footsteps drew my attention.
Ken.
He appeared at the gate, looking slightly tired from his day at the hospital, yet the subtle warmth in his eyes made my chest tighten involuntarily.
"Ysabelle," he said softly, surprise and amusement dancing in his tone. "You waited?"
I gave a neutral shrug, masking the quickened pulse in my chest. "I had time. Might as well use it."
He laughed lightly, a quiet sound that seemed to make the evening air hum. "Come inside," he said, holding the door open.
I followed him into the kitchen, where he had already set out plates and silverware for dinner.
Nothing fancy, just a home-cooked meal.
The effort wasn't lost on me, subtle, understated, and entirely thoughtful.
We sat across from each other at the small table.
The aroma of the food mingled with the faint scent of his cologne, grounding me in a strange way.
We ate in quiet for a few minutes, the clinking of cutlery and soft sighs filling the space between words.
"You've been… quiet lately," he said finally, breaking the comfortable silence.
His eyes studied me with that calm, unwavering patience that made it impossible to look away.
"I observe," I said simply, voice flat. Cold. Distant.
My fingers traced the edge of the plate, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
He chuckled softly, undeterred. "You've always been… meticulous. Every movement precise."
I met his eyes briefly, letting a fraction of my own awareness show. "It keeps me… aware."
The meal continued, slow and measured.
Ken asked about small things, my morning, the walk through town, the quiet café I had visited.
I responded succinctly, offering no more than necessary, keeping the walls up as always.
And yet, every so often, our eyes would meet across the table.
Small glances, unspoken acknowledgments.
Moments that carried a weight far heavier than the words between us.
When the plates were cleared, we lingered, neither moving to leave.
"You've changed," he said softly again, voice almost hesitant. "You're… calmer. Quieter. But… something else. Something I can't quite name."
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I studied the faint shadows in his expression, the gentle curve of his lips, the subtle warmth in his eyes.
"I'm…" I paused, carefully choosing words, "just… adapting."
He nodded slowly, accepting the vague answer,
but I could see the curiosity lingering in his gaze.
The quiet intensity that mirrored my own.
We sat together, finishing our meal, sipping water, sharing quiet smiles and comfortable silences.
Not laughter this time.
Not words.
Just the faint rhythm of existence, two people sharing space without needing to define it.
And in that quiet, I realized, I didn't want to define it.
Not yet.
Not ever.
I felt a warmth growing, subtle but undeniable.
It didn't break the cold exterior I wore like armor.
It didn't make me smile, not truly.
But it made my chest… lighter, my hands steady, my mind less cluttered with the ghosts of a life I had tried to escape.
When the meal was done, Ken stood, giving me a small, quiet smile. "Thank you," he said simply. "For… being here."
I inclined my head, neutral, composed, hiding the faint echo of a smile that wanted to emerge. "You're welcome," I said softly, voice steady.
The evening had ended, the apartment settling into its soft hum of domestic quiet.
Yet inside me, something lingered, a spark, a warmth, a pulse of something I refused to name, yet couldn't deny.
And as I stood to leave, pulling my hoodie tight and cap low, I knew one thing with certainty:
I would wait for him again.
And I would always find a reason to be near.