Andrea's POVNot saying anything specific. Just watching me the way he sometimes did when he thought I wasn't paying attention—with that particular focused attention that never felt intrusive, just present. Like I was something worth watching.I let myself be watched. Stopped deflecting from it the way I would have done weeks ago.After dinner, we cleared the table together and moved to the kitchen. He washed, I dried—an arrangement that established itself without discussion, the way comfortable things do. The radio was on somewhere in the apartment, low enough to be ambient rather than intrusive, something slow and melodic that I didn't recognize.The domesticity of it settled around me like something I'd been cold without and hadn't realized.This kitchen, this man, this ordinary evening that felt extraordinary specifically because of how ordinary it was. No crisis. No hospitals. No holding ourselves together through sheer force of will. Just dishes and warm water and his arm occasi
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