I sat on the couch, legs tucked under me, my hoodie slightly loose but still carrying the familiar weight of armor I refused to shed completely. Ken leaned casually beside me, his presence warm and grounding.
The kiss from earlier lingered in my chest, a subtle fire I wasn't ready to name.
I kept my expression neutral, voice flat, but inside, my thoughts were a storm I refused to admit aloud.
"I never asked," I said softly, glancing at him, careful not to reveal the flutter in my chest, "do you… ever think about her?"
He looked at me, calm, patient, and for a moment I felt the weight of his gaze. "No," he said simply, voice even but certain. "Keisha… isn't someone I… consider in that way."
A quiet exhale left me, almost imperceptible, but I let it linger.
I wasn't used to relief feeling so sharp.
My chest tightened, not from longing, but from the sudden ease of a truth I hadn't expected.
We sat there for a while in quiet, small touches brushing occasionally as we shifted.
I noticed the faint scars on his hands from the work he did small imperfections, human and real and I felt an odd pull, a sense that this calm, normal life was something I'd never known I needed.
It was strange, almost foreign, like stepping into a version of myself I hadn't met before.
My mind briefly flicked, unbidden, to the edges of something I couldn't quite name, a sensation of displacement, a feeling that this wasn't exactly the body I once knew, the heart I once carried.
But I pushed it aside, focusing on the warmth beside me, the simple comfort of being near him.
I sipped my tea, letting the warmth settle in my chest.
My fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the cup, and for the first time in weeks, I wasn't thinking about Drake, about the heartbreak that had hollowed me out.
I wasn't thinking about the eyes of the paparazzi, the flashing cameras, the scripted smiles.
I was only thinking about this.
About the quiet apartment, the soft hum of the city outside, and Ken.
"I…" I hesitated, looking down at my hands, then back at him. "I don't know if I'm ready to…."
He tilted his head slightly, gaze gentle but probing. "That's okay," he said softly. "You don't have to rush. Not right now."
I felt the honesty in his words, the lack of pressure, the subtle comfort in his presence.
It didn't erase the fear in my chest, the part of me that was trained to guard, to analyze, to survive.
But it… softened it.
Hours passed quietly.
We talked about nothing in particular, the slow rhythm of the town, small anecdotes, and trivial observations.
Laughter bubbled occasionally, light and fleeting, brushing against the tension that had been growing inside me.
When I leaned back, resting my head slightly against the sofa, I noticed the faint glow of the city outside.
The stars were barely visible, but there was a sense of… alignment, of calm.
My chest, still tight with the uncertainty of what I felt, seemed to expand in a way that was unfamiliar, comforting.
Ken shifted closer, resting an arm casually along the back of the sofa.
Our shoulders brushed, light and accidental, and I didn't move away.
The warmth lingered, grounding me, anchoring me in the moment.
I kept my thoughts scattered, careful not to name what I was feeling, the dangerous pull of wanting more, of craving him in a way that scared me.
I wasn't ready to surrender completely, and yet… I didn't want to let go.
As the night deepened, I glanced at my reflection in the window.
The faint silhouette of my face caught in the glass seemed almost… unfamiliar.
There was a softness, a quiet, a vulnerability I hadn't recognized before.
I touched the glass lightly, as if confirming that this life, this moment, was real.
And yet, deep down, an echo whispered, something wasn't entirely mine.
Something subtle, fleeting, like a shadow at the edge of perception.
I pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the warmth at my side, the steady presence of Ken.
We eventually drifted into quiet, contented silence.
No words were needed.
The soft hum of the city, the faint glow of the streetlights, the warmth between us, it was enough.
For now, the world could wait.
I could wait.
And somehow, that was okay.