Page 139 of Show Me

She doesn’t turn right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to acknowledge it. “Yeah.” Her voice is even. Too even.

I sit up, dragging a hand down my face. “You always this quiet in the morning?” I try to make the question come out lightly, a bit of a joke, but it doesn’t sound that way. I know she’s not this quiet in the morning. She’s never this quiet.

“Sometimes.” Not defensive. Not sharp. Just… flat. That’s worse.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my jeans from the floor, and pulling them on.

‘It’s been quiet. Maybe it’s done.’ That wasn’t about the stalker. Not really. I feel it now, sitting here with the space between us that wasn’t there before.

She meant this. This arrangement. Me.

I step into the hallway, not waiting for anything else, too afraid to ask her if she wants me to leave. The hollowness inside me shifts, growing with each step. I’m worried about her safety. That’s the first thought that comes to mind.

No, that’s a lie. The first thought that comes to mind is that if I ask her and she tells me she’s done, I don’t know how to process that. I don’t know how to walk away. And I’ve never not known how to walk away. It’s what I do.

I run my hand through my hair, leaving strands pointed in every direction. The kitchen is colder than it should be. I move through it on instinct, coffee, cabinet, filter, hands finding things before I think about where they are. The familiarity. The ease.

Tension takes up root in my shoulders. But it’s not easy. It was, and now, it’s not. How in the hell did I get here? I start the coffee to do something. Something to anchor this into routine instead of whatever the hell just shifted between us.

It doesn’t work. Because it doesn’t feel the same. The machine hums to life, filling the silence. I rest my hands on the counter, staring at nothing.

We had a rhythm. Not perfect. Not defined. But it worked. I showed up. She didn’t push. We kept it contained. And now…. Now it feels like she’s already stepping back from it. Before I’ve even had the chance to decide if I would.

I rub that fucking spot on my chest as I straighten, grabbing a mug, pouring coffee I don’t want.

She’s out of bed when I go back in. Dressed. That’s new too. Usually slower. Takes her time. Moves around the room like she’s not in a hurry to leave it.

Now she’s pulling her hair back, movements efficient, like she’s already halfway out the door.

“You’re up early.” The bitter taste of the coffee rises in my throat.

She glances at me. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Lie. Or partial. Either way, I’m not stupid. I know what this is. She’s yanking herself back and putting distance between us.

I hold her gaze as my fingers bite into the ceramic mug. “You usually can.”

“Not today.”

I step further into the room, setting the coffee on the dresser without asking if she wants it. “I’ll swing by tonight. Check things. Make sure everything’s still–”

“You don’t have to.” It’s quick. Too quick.

My attention sharpens. “I know I don’t have to.”

She bites her bottom lip. “It’s been quiet. I think… whatever it was, it might be done.”

There it is again. Same words. Same tone. But now I hear it for what it is. Distance. There’s no question that she’s pulling back. The only question is, does she want it, or does she think I do? Does she think I’m here out of obligation? Yes, I care about her safety, but that’s not why I’m here.

I take a step closer. “You think that’s what I mean? That if this is over, we’re over?”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“Do you think I want this to be over if things settle down?”

She hesitates. Just long enough. “I think.” She pauses as if she’s trying to find the right way to say what she’s thinking and feeling. “We said this wasn’t supposed to turn into something more.”

“That’s not what I asked.”