Chapter 2: A Quiet Kind of Care
The next morning, I tried to pretend like nothing had happened.
Alex was already in the kitchen, making coffee.
I froze for a moment. He looked calm, casual.
But the way he moved… precise, careful, almost like he knew I was watching.
I cleared my throat. "Morning."
He didn't look up. Just slid a mug toward me.
"Coffee. Black."
I took it, mumbling a thanks.
Silence filled the room.
It wasn't uncomfortable. Not yet. But…
every small gesture felt heavier than usual.
---
Later, I found a note on the fridge.
"You left your hoodie on the floor. Cleaned it."
I frowned. That was… thoughtful?
I didn't know whether to feel grateful or annoyed.
I glanced over. Alex was leaning against the counter, reading something on his tablet.
Eyes still calm. Expression unreadable.
---
That afternoon, I stayed up late trying to finish an assignment.
The lights in the living room flicked off unexpectedly.
I froze.
"Alex?"
No answer.
Then, a soft click—the lamp on the small desk by the couch turned on.
He was sitting there, quietly, watching me work.
Not hovering. Not saying a word.
Just… presence.
---
Days passed like that.
Small gestures. Quiet observations.
I began noticing patterns:
My coffee always ready.
Towels folded neatly in the bathroom.
Books returned to the shelf in the exact order I liked.
And every time… my chest would tighten.
---
One Friday evening, I came home from work later than usual.
Alex was already in the living room, reading.
He looked up briefly.
"Dinner?"
I shook my head. "I… grabbed something on the way."
He said nothing, just nodded.
Then, he stood up and handed me a small packet.
"Forgot to eat this?"
I looked inside. Sandwich. Exactly the kind I liked.
"Thanks," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
He didn't smile. Didn't react. Just turned and walked away.
---
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again.
It wasn't love. Not yet.
But… it was something. Something I didn't have words for.
And I knew one thing for certain:
Alex was already leaving a mark.
---