The Next Morning
You wake before the house stirs. The silence is thick, like fog.
You step into the hallway barefoot, careful not to make a sound. You're not headed to the kitchen.
You're headed to his office.
It's always in perfect order—except for one thing.
The spine of an anatomy book on his desk is frayed. He flips through it often—too often. You've seen it. The cover's beginning to tear, pages loose. You'd never mention it aloud. But your fingers always itch to fix it.
So today, you do.
You bring nothing but a quiet roll of linen tape, soft glue, and a steady hand.
You sit at his desk for barely ten minutes. You straighten the edges. Reinforce the spine. Not too much—just enough that it'll last him longer. You even dust the corners of the shelf, gently returning the book exactly where it was.
You don't leave a note. You don't sign your name.
You vanish before the sun is fully up.
Later That Day
You're carrying folded laundry, the scent of fresh cotton clinging to your sleeves. The house is quiet, bathed in the muted gold of late afternoon.
You round the corner—and stop.
He's just stepped out of his study.
Your eyes meet.
He notices the stillness first. Then, his gaze flickers—something unspoken passing through it.
"You fixed the book."
His voice is casual, but there's a softness there. Something careful.
You shift the laundry in your arms, but don't drop your gaze.
"It looked like it mattered to you."
Not teasing. Not accusing. Just honest.
He nods.
There's a pause—not awkward, just full.
Then quietly, without needing to make more of it than it is:
"Thank you."
His voice is lower now. No longer casual.
You feel it settle in your chest—real.
You swallow, then offer the faintest smile—not quite on your lips, but in your eyes.
"You're welcome."
He doesn't move at first.
Then he does.
He steps past, but this time… he brushes just slightly closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel the air shift.
The silence that followed was so sweet.