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I leave him to earn the rest.

Oliver is awake when I unlock his door.

He’s sitting in the chair beside the window with his glasses on and a book open across one knee. He’s already dressed himself in charcoal trousers and a white button-down, and his hair is combed neatly back from his face.

The bed behind him is made so carefully that the blanket shows no evidence he slept beneath it. His green sleep pants are folded on top of the dresser.

“Good morning, Oliver.”

“Good morning, Heather.” He finishes the sentence he’s reading before slipping one finger between the pages and looking up at me.

I close the door and take my time looking around the room. Oliver has erased himself from the room so thoroughly that the effort becomes its own kind of mess.

His eyes stay on mine while I cross the room. I stop in front of him and hold out my hand for the book. Oliver hesitates before giving it to me.

I close it without marking his page and set it on the dresser. “Stand up.”

He stands. There’s nothing wrong with what he chose. If I had selected the clothes myself, I might have chosen the same ones.

“Take them off.”

Oliver looks at me for a moment, then reaches for the first button.

I walk to his wardrobe. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.”

I look back at him.

He’s removed his shirt and is folding it instead of dropping it on the floor. His face is calm, his movements unhurried, and the answer arrived without so much as a pause.

I take out a dark green shirt and lay it across the bed, then choose black trousers to go with it.

When I turn around, Oliver’s finished undressing. He’s folded everything and placed it neatly on the chair where he was sitting. He stands beside it waiting for me in his underwear, his expression composed.

I point to the clothes on the bed. “Those.”

He picks up the trousers. His hands remain on the waistband for a second before he pulls them the rest of the way up. “Why did I need to change?”

I walk over and take the green shirt from the bed. “Because I didn’t dress you.”

His gaze moves from the shirt to my face. “You choose Jamie’s clothes.”

“Yes.” I hold the shirt out.

Oliver takes it without arguing and puts it on.

I wait until he has buttoned himself neatly to the throat. Then I undo the first three. My fingers brush the silver bar before I fold the shirt open around it.

“You can arrange yourself when you’re alone,” I tell him as I take off his glasses.

I turn his face toward the light and inspect him without the barrier before putting the glasses back on. “You worked very hard this morning,” I say.

“To get dressed?”

“To look like nothing happened.”

His mouth stays relaxed and his shoulders don’t move, but his gaze goes flat and exact, the look he uses before asking a student to defend a bad answer. He waits for the rest. When I don’t give it to him, he glances toward the dresser where I put his book.