The morning is gray in the same way the dream was.
Clouded. Muted. Functional.
He doesn't make breakfast.
Coffee is enough.
The apartment stays quiet except for the soft click of the kettle and the faint sound of paws crossing the floor.
He checks his phone once.
No new messages.
He waits a few minutes before texting her.
How are you today?
He doesn't add anything else.
No concern wrapped in reassurance.
No pressure.
She replies after a while.
Thinking.
That's it.
He stares at the word.
Not alarmed.
Just aware.
About? he types.
The pause stretches longer this time.
He doesn't fill it.
The cat jumps onto the counter, and he nudges her gently back down.
His phone lights up.
Would you come over?
He reads it twice.
Laura doesn't invite people over.
He's been to her apartment a handful of times in five years.
To pick her up.
To drop something off.
To help carry equipment.
Brief entries.
Functional visits.
Never this.
He doesn't analyze the shift.
He doesn't ask why.
Of course.
She responds almost immediately.
In an hour?
That's fine.
He sets the phone down.
There's no spike of anxiety.
No overthinking.
If anything, there's steadiness.
Laura initiating contact isn't small.
It means she's not retreating into structure.
It means she's reaching outward.
That matters.
He finishes his coffee.
Feeds the cat again even though she doesn't need it.
Washes the cup.
He moves through the apartment automatically.
Minimal space.
Minimal objects.
Nothing here that wasn't chosen by him.
He doesn't decorate.
He doesn't curate.
He keeps what functions.
He grabs his jacket.
Checks the time once.
Then leaves.
He doesn't know what she's going to say.
He doesn't try to predict it.
For once, he isn't preparing to stabilize anything.
He's just going because she asked.