Interlude — The Stillness After

The rain was a whisper against the windows. A soft, constant hush that made everything else sound louder—tea sloshing in mugs, the tick of the toaster, the hum of my refrigerator working harder than it needed to.

Coco sat on the edge of the couch like it might buck her off if she relaxed. She wore one of my flannel shirts, sleeves too long, mismatched socks pulled to her knees. Her hair was tied up in a lazy knot that didn’t quite disguise the fact she hadn’t slept well.

She looked like chaos pretending to be cozy.

I flipped a pancake that didn’t deserve the name. It hit the pan with a sullen splat.

“Your kitchen’s too quiet,” she said.

I glanced over. “I can turn on music.”

“No.” She stared into her mug. “Then it’s not real. This is real.”

She took a sip and winced. “Too much ginger.”

“Too much Coco, too.”

She gave a ghost of a smile, then tucked her legs up beneath her like she was folding in on herself.

I slid the pancake onto a plate. It looked like a wound.

“I’m trying,” I said.

“I know.”

The silence returned—not angry, not comfortable. Just there.

Coco shifted, mug held close like a shield.

“I woke up at 4 a.m.,” she said. “Had my shoes on. Coat in hand. I didn’t even remember getting dressed. My body was leaving before my mind had the chance to argue.”

“But you didn’t leave.”

“I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried until the light changed.”

I set the plate down and crossed the room. Sat on the carpet in front of her. Not touching. Just grounding.

“You don’t cry,” I said.

“I do,” she whispered. “I just come louder.”

That silence again—different now. Charged. Like a held breath. Like a rope pulled taut between us.

“I’m scared of what happens if I stay,” she said, voice small. “What if I stop moving and there’s nothing left? What if I was only ever beautiful at a distance?”

“You’re not beautiful,” I said.

She blinked.

“You’re unbearable,” I continued. “You track mud through everything. You use my towel. You whisper things into my chest at night and pretend you didn’t in the morning. You burn too hot.”

I leaned closer.

“And I’ve never loved anything more in my life.”

Her eyes widened. She looked like she might bolt.

“I can’t promise you stillness,” I said. “But I can promise you shelter.”

She closed her eyes.

And then she moved.

Not into me—but off the couch. Onto the floor. Into my lap. Knees curled to her chest. Face pressed to my throat. Like a storm curling back into its own quiet.

I held her.

Her body vibrated like something fighting to stay solid. She didn’t speak. She didn’t sob. But she shook, and the heat of her was unbearable in the most human way.

My hand found the back of her neck. Her breath caught.

“I want you,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“But not like that. Not yet. Not today.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I want you like this.”

We stayed there on the floor. Rain hissing against the glass. Pancakes forgotten. Tea cold. Breath syncing.

There was no sex that night.

But every part of her pressed into me felt more intimate than anything we’d done on a yacht or a stage or a mountainside.

Stillness wasn’t absence.

It was exposure.

And it was the closest she’d ever let me come.