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For the most part, they have.

This morning, Kell left a voice message to say he needed to come by for more clothes. He didn’t know exactly when.

So when a knock finally sounds at the door, I freeze with one hand on the kitchen counter.

A knock. Not his key in the lock.

He still has one, but apparently he no longer considers this a house he can simply walk into.

I open the door, and my entire body reacts before I can stop it. Relief comes first, followed by the ridiculous little lift of happiness I used to get whenever he came home. I hate how quickly my body remembers him.

I move out of the way, and Kell steps inside. He’s wearing jeans I haven’t seen before and a dark shirt that definitely didn’t come from the shopping trip we made together. It shouldn’t matter that I wasn’t there when he chose them. It does. Dried green paint streaks one wrist. He has the empty duffel bag in the other hand.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

For weeks, we’ve been incapable of occupying the same room without eventually closing the distance between us, kissing or reaching for each other without even thinking about it. Now he’s standing only a few feet away, and neither of us moves. I’m achingly aware of the distance anyway.

“I need some clothes,” he says. “And my other boots.”

“Of course.”

“I won’t be long.”

“You don’t have to rush.”

The words sound wrong as soon as I hear them. Like something I’d say to a guest.

Kell heads down the hall and up the stairs toward the guest room. I return to the kitchen rather than stand in the entry waiting for him. A minute later, I realize I’ve chopped the onion far finer than I intended and put the knife down before I reduce it to paste.

This is what I wanted. Distance and clarity. No waking up beside him and forgetting that wanting a life with someone is supposed to be a decision, not something that happens because he makes me laugh and knows how I take my coffee. I got exactly what I asked for, and I hate it.

I hear him coming downstairs and leave the onion where it is. By the time I reach the living room, Kell is carrying the duffel he refilled, the zipper pulled tight across the top. His other boots are hooked in one hand. He sets everything beside the front door.

“You can leave some things here.”

He looks at me.

“I mean, you don’t have to take everything at once.”

“I know.”

His voice gives me nothing.

I look at the stuffed duffel beside him. The argument I’ve been having with myself for the last week sounded much more reasonable when Kell wasn’t standing in front of me.

“You don’t have to stay at the studio because of one conversation.”

“I’m not staying there because of one conversation.”

“Then why?”

“Because I don’t want to be here pretending nothing has changed.”

“I’m not asking you to pretend.”

“Aren’t you?”