5

As the cereal clinked softly into the bowls, Celeste leaned a hip against the counter, watching Nate with a half-smile as he shook the carton of milk like it might tell him its secrets.

"Still cold," he announced, pouring a generous splash into both bowls. "Barely," he added with a smirk.

The hush of night clung to the kitchen, punctuated only by the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock above the sink. Nate leaned against the counter, shirt now clinging lazily to his frame, the top button of his jeans still undone. Across from him, Celeste stood with her arms crossed, one hip cocked, the air between them already cooling.

“Plans tonight?” she asked, voice low but even, like they hadn't just been tangled in each other ten minutes ago.

Nate glanced at his phone, screen lighting up his face. “Actually, yeah. Buddy of mine’s throwing something downtown.” He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it.

She nodded, unsurprised. “Sounds fun.”

He smiled faintly, that lopsided grin that always got him off the hook. “Should be. You good?”

“Always.”

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “Alright then.

I’ll text.”

“You won’t.”

He paused, looked at her, maybe a little longer than he should have. Then—just a nod, and the soft click of the front door.

Celeste turned back to the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water, the overhead light casting long shadows on the tile. It was quiet again. Just her and the echo of him leaving.

The door closed with a soft finality, and Celeste stood alone in the dim kitchen, the overhead light washing the space in sterile calm. She reached for her water glass, not because she was thirsty, but because doing something—anything—felt better than letting the quiet swallow her whole.

She wasn’t sad. Not exactly.

This was how it worked. How they worked.

No expectations, no illusions. Just comfort. Just fire. Just knowing someone so well that even silence between bodies felt like something honest.

And still... she let herself wonder, just for a moment. Maybe, in another life, he’d stay. Maybe he’d take off his shoes and fall asleep beside her, warm and familiar. Maybe they’d argue about the thermostat or how much coffee to keep stocked. Maybe he’d leave little bits of himself behind—laundry, receipts, toothbrushes—and not just fingerprints on her skin.

But that wasn’t this life.

In this one, they understood the rules. She didn’t ask where he went afterward, and he never asked what she was doing the rest of the week. They were free, perfectly untethered. And yet—somehow—they kept coming back. Bodies drawn by muscle memory, by the way they fit together too easily. No love. No promises. Just that soft, staggering relief of recognition.

She didn’t ache for more. Not really. But the thought lingered, hazy and harmless, as she headed back to bed.

Tomorrow would be another day. Another text, another maybe. And when he showed up again—because he always did—it would all make sense for a little while. The kind of sense that didn’t ask questions or make demands. The kind that knew exactly when to leave.