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I woke earlier than usual.
For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house. It felt strange after the night before too calm, like the air hadn't quite settled yet.
Dinner with Marcus.
Ziven's silence.
That look in his eyes I still couldn't explain.
I rubbed my face and sat up.
Today was my first day.
The thought sent a flicker of nerves through my stomach. Excitement, too, but buried under the weight of expectation. I hadn't realized how much this mattered to me until it became real.
I showered, dressed slowly, choosing clothes more carefully than usual. When I finally stepped into the kitchen, Ziven was already there.
He stood at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Morning light fell across the side of his face, softening the sharpness of his expression.
He glanced up when he heard me.
"Morning."
"Morning," I replied.
The word hung between us, simple but carrying more awareness than it should have. We moved around each other quietly, like we were both measuring the distance without acknowledging it.
"First day," he said after a moment.
"Yeah."
"You nervous?"
"A little."
"That's normal."
I poured myself coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. The quiet wasn't uncomfortable, exactly but it wasn't easy either. It felt like walking across ice that hadn't decided whether it would hold.
"You'll be fine," Ziven said.
I looked up. "You sound very sure."
"I am."
I didn't ask how he could be so certain. Something in his tone told me he meant it not as reassurance, but as fact.
We ate breakfast together, simple and quiet. No Marcus. No tension thick enough to choke on. Just the soft clink of dishes and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Normal.
Or as close as we could manage.
Afterward, I went to grab my bag. When I came back into the hallway, Ziven was already there, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.
I hesitated.
There was something oddly formal about the moment, like we were both preparing to step into different versions of ourselves.
"Wait," he said suddenly.
I stopped. "What?"
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at my collar. "Your tie."
I glanced down. It looked fine to me, but before I could protest, he reached out and adjusted it, fingers precise and careful.
The world narrowed to the space between us.
I could feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric, the faint brush of his knuckles near my throat. My breath caught, just slightly, and I hoped he didn't notice.
"Hold still," he murmured.
I wasn't moving.
His focus was intense in a way that made my chest tighten not uncomfortable, just… aware. Like standing too close to a heat source and realizing you didn't want to step back.
"There," he said finally, smoothing the knot into place.
But his hand lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
So did the silence.
I looked up, and for a moment we were standing too close, the distance between us reduced to something fragile and dangerous. I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when he was thinking too much.
My heart was beating faster than it should have.
I stepped back first.
"Thanks," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
He nodded once. "Of course."
The moment passed or at least pretended to.
I grabbed my bag, trying to shake off the strange feeling lingering in my chest.
"Good luck today," he said.
"Thanks."
I turned toward the door, then paused. "I'll… tell you how it goes."
"I know," he replied.
I didn't ask how he knew that either.
The air outside was cool, sharp enough to wake me properly. As I walked toward the bus stop, my thoughts drifted back to the hallway.
To the way his fingers had felt adjusting my tie.
To how close we'd been standing.
I shook my head, exhaling slowly.
It didn't mean anything.
It was just a small thing. A practical thing. Something anyone would do.
And yet
I couldn't stop replaying the moment in my head.
Not because of what happened.
But because of what almost did.
Standing that close, I'd felt something shift not in the world, not in the house, but in the quiet space between us.
Something subtle.
Something unfinished.
And for the first time, I wondered not with fear, but with a quiet, unsettled curiosity
how much closer we could stand before one of us stopped pretending not to notice.