The Touch - Rewrite

The light came first.

It slipped through the darkness slowly, thin and sharp, cutting across my vision in a way that made me flinch before I was even fully awake. For a second, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. The brightness felt wrong—too real, too immediate—and my body tensed instinctively as if I had done something wrong just by noticing it.

Then it hit me.

I could see.

My eyes snapped open wider despite the sting, and I sucked in a sharp breath as my hands flew up to my face. My fingers brushed against rough gauze wrapped around my head, but there was nothing covering my eyes anymore. No darkness. No barrier. Just the dim glow of the hospital room stretching out in front of me.

The television flickered quietly across from the bed, its volume turned down so low it barely made a sound. The shifting light from the screen cast faint shadows along the walls, making everything feel unsteady, like I hadn’t fully woken up yet. My vision blurred slightly at the edges, struggling to adjust, but it didn’t disappear.

I could see.

The realization settled heavily in my chest as I slowly turned my head to the side. A woman with brown hair was curled slightly in the chair beside my bed, her head tilted at an awkward angle as she slept. Even in the low light, I recognized her.

Natalie.

For a moment, I just stared at her, unsure what to do. My breathing slowed, but something tight still lingered in my chest. It didn’t feel like relief. Not completely.

My fingers hovered near my eyes again, like I was expecting the darkness to come back if I didn’t check.

It didn’t.

A small shift of movement must have made some noise, because Natalie stirred slightly in her chair. She shifted once, then again, before her eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first. It took her a second to realize what she was looking at.

Then she sat up straight.

“Zachary?” she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “My eyes…” I whispered, my voice rough and uneven. “I can see…”

Natalie’s expression softened instantly, the last traces of sleep fading as she leaned forward in her chair. There was relief in her face—real relief—not the kind people pretended.

“Yeah,” she said gently. “They took the bandage off earlier. Your eyes are okay now.”

Okay.

The word didn’t settle the way it should have.

I blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light, to the shapes, to everything that suddenly existed again. It all felt too sharp, too unfamiliar, like I had been gone longer than I thought.

“It might feel a little weird at first,” Natalie continued, her tone calm and steady. “Your eyes just need time to adjust. You’ve been in the dark for a while.”

I nodded faintly, even though I wasn’t sure if she expected me to.

A while.

I didn’t know how long that was anymore.

The room fell quiet again, filled only by the faint glow of the television and the steady rhythm of machines around me. Natalie stayed where she was, watching me carefully, like she was making sure I wasn’t going to disappear again.

I didn’t say anything else.

I just kept looking.

Making sure it was real.

The room looked different once the daylight fully settled in.

It wasn’t as quiet as it had been when I first woke up. The shadows had pulled back, replaced by a dull gray light filtering in through the window, and with it came sound—more than before. Voices drifted faintly from the hallway, carts rolling past, doors opening and closing somewhere down the corridor. It made everything feel more real, more solid… but not necessarily safer.

I shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as a dull ache spread through my ribs and shoulders. My body still didn’t feel like it belonged to me. Every movement was slower than it should have been, heavier, like I was working against something I couldn’t see.

Natalie stood near the end of the bed, checking something on the chart before glancing back at me. She looked more like herself now—awake, focused, moving with quiet efficiency—but there was still that same softness in the way she watched me, like she was measuring more than just numbers on a page.

“Hey… how are your eyes feeling?” she asked gently. “Any pain? Head hurting at all?”

I hesitated for a moment, actually thinking about it instead of just reacting. The pressure behind my eyes was still there, steady and dull, but it wasn’t sharp enough to make me panic.

“A little,” I admitted quietly. “It’s not… bad.”

She nodded once, like that lined up with what she expected.

“That’s normal,” she said. “You’ve been in the dark for a while. Your eyes just need time to adjust.”

I glanced around the room again, slower this time, letting my vision catch up. The shapes didn’t blur as much now, but everything still felt slightly off, like I was looking at the world through something thin and distorted.

“It’s been about a month… right?” I asked quietly, more to confirm it than to learn it.

Natalie paused for a moment, then nodded as she set the chart aside and stepped closer to the bed.

“Just about,” she said gently. “You’ve been making progress, though. More this past week than before.”

A month.

I already knew that.

Oliver had told me… sometime during the night, when everything felt distant and harder to hold onto. It had sounded unreal then. It still did now.

The number didn’t sit right in my head. It felt too big, too disconnected from anything I could actually remember. Everything after that night still blurred together into fragments—voices, movement, pieces that didn’t fully connect.

I looked down at my hands, turning them slightly like I expected them to show me something different.

They didn’t.

“That’s okay,” Natalie said gently, like she could see where my thoughts were going. “You don’t need to remember everything right now.”

The room fell quiet again, but it wasn’t empty.

A soft knock came from the door before it opened just enough for someone to step inside.

“Perfect timing,” a voice said.

I froze for a second.

I knew that voice.

I had heard it before—late at night, when everything felt heavier and harder to hold onto. When I couldn’t tell if I was awake or not. It had always been there, steady and calm, cutting through everything else.

Oliver.

I just hadn’t seen him until now.

My eyes lifted before I could stop them, settling on him as he stepped further into the room. He looked younger than I expected—early twenties, maybe—with features that were sharp but softened by the way he carried himself. There was nothing rigid about him, nothing that made me feel like I needed to brace for something. His posture was relaxed, his movements easy, like he wasn’t trying too hard to be anything other than what he was.

His hair sat slightly out of place, like he had run a hand through it too many times during a long shift, and there was something quietly steady in the way he looked at me—not overly concerned, not distant either. Just present.

Handsome.

The thought slipped in without warning, and just as quickly, I dropped my gaze back to the blanket in my hands.

“Hey,” he said, a faint smile in his voice. “Look who decided to be awake during normal hours.”

Natalie huffed softly. “He’s been awake,” she corrected. “Just not when you’re around.”

Oliver stepped a little closer, glancing briefly at the chart before looking back at me. “Yeah,” he said lightly, “I usually get the overnight version of you.”

There was something familiar in the way he said it—not teasing, not forced. Just… matter-of-fact.

Natalie checked the time and let out a quiet breath. “Alright,” she said, reaching for the chart again. “I’m heading out. He’s all yours.”

She stepped closer to the bed, her expression softening again as she looked down at me. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be back in the morning.”

I nodded faintly.

Then she was gone.

The room didn’t feel empty, though.

Oliver pulled the chair a little closer and sat down, resting his arms loosely on his knees. He didn’t rush into anything. He didn’t fill the silence right away. He just sat there for a moment, letting everything settle.

“So,” he said after a bit, “you ready to try moving a little?”

I blinked at him.

“Moving?” I repeated.

“Nothing crazy,” he said quickly. “Just some light exercises. You’ve been in bed a while—your body’s gonna need a reminder.”

A tight feeling settled in my chest as I looked down at my arms again, at how weak they felt, how little control I seemed to have over even small movements.

“I don’t think I can,” I muttered.

Oliver shrugged lightly, like that didn’t surprise him. “That’s fine,” he said. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to try.”

That didn’t sound like a trick.

After a moment, I gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

He stood, moving to the side of the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll take it easy.”

He guided me carefully as I shifted, every movement pulling at muscles that felt like they hadn’t been used in forever. The effort alone made my breathing uneven, my body trembling slightly as I tried to hold myself upright.

“Yeah…” Oliver murmured under his breath. “That’s about what I expected.”

I shot him a weak glare, but there wasn’t much behind it.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Hey, that’s not a bad thing,” he added. “Means you’ve got somewhere to improve from.”

We worked through small movements, nothing complicated—just enough to make everything burn in a way that felt both painful and necessary. By the time I leaned back against the pillows again, I was exhausted in a way that didn’t feel like sleep would fix.

Oliver didn’t push it further.

“Good enough for now,” he said. “We’ll do more later.”

The rest of the day passed in pieces.

Time didn’t feel steady yet. It stretched and folded in strange ways, marked only by small things—food I barely touched, nurses coming and going, the television playing quietly in the background. Oliver checked in regularly, never staying too long, but never disappearing completely either.

Every time he came back, it felt… consistent.

As the light outside the window began to fade, the room slowly slipped back into shadow. The hallway grew quieter, the sounds more distant, replaced by that low, steady hum that seemed to take over at night.

Oliver returned again, pulling the chair close.

“Round two?” he asked lightly.

I didn’t want to.

Every part of me ached, and the thought of moving again made something in my chest tighten.

But I nodded anyway.

“Okay.”

This time was a little easier.

Not much.

But enough.

By the time I settled back against the bed again, my body felt heavier in a different way—used, worn, but not completely useless.

Oliver adjusted the blanket slightly before stepping back.

“That’s it for tonight,” he said. “You did good.”

I didn’t argue this time.

As the room settled into quiet again, my eyes drifted toward the ceiling, the faint glow of the television reflecting softly against it.

Sleep was coming.

I could feel it.

And despite everything—

I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it anymore.

The water came back first.

Not the room. Not him. Just the water, cold and creeping, pressing against my skin as it rose higher with each passing second. It soaked through my clothes, clinging to me in a way that made it harder to move, heavier somehow, like it was trying to pull me down instead of just surround me. I couldn’t see where I was—everything around me was dark and shifting—but I could feel it. The weight of it. The slow, steady way it climbed without stopping.

My chest tightened as I tried to move, but my arms felt wrong—slow, unresponsive, like they weren’t fully mine. The surface of the water trembled just inches from my face, close enough that I could feel the faint difference in the air above it, just out of reach. I tried to lift myself, to push up, but my body wouldn’t listen. It never did when it mattered.

Then the water rose higher.

It covered my mouth before I could react, and I gasped instinctively, but nothing came. The cold rushed in instead, flooding my throat and burning as my body tried to force it back out. My chest jerked violently, muscles tightening as panic surged through me, sharp and immediate.

I needed air.

My hands twitched weakly, barely lifting, barely moving. The surface was right there—so close—but I couldn’t reach it. My body refused to respond, heavy and useless as the water continued to rise. It slid over my nose, then my eyes, stealing the last of what little air I had left as darkness closed in.

The panic hit all at once, overwhelming and absolute, drowning out everything else. My chest burned, my lungs screaming as my body fought against something it couldn’t win against. There was nothing left to grab onto, nothing left to fight with.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t—

My body jerked violently as I tore back into consciousness, a sharp, choking gasp ripping through my chest before I could stop it. Another followed immediately, then another, each one uneven and desperate as I struggled to pull in air that didn’t feel like enough. My lungs burned, my throat tight and raw as my body fought to remember something as simple as breathing.

For a few seconds, nothing made sense. The room blurred together, light and shadow twisting into something unfamiliar as panic clung to me, refusing to let go. The feeling of the water was still there, pressing in, suffocating, making it impossible to separate what had just happened from where I actually was.

Hands grabbed my shoulders, firm but not rough, grounding in a way that cut through the chaos.

“Hey—hey, you’re okay—”

The voice broke through everything, steady and close.

Oliver.

I latched onto that before anything else, my hands gripping onto his shirt without thinking, fingers tightening like it was the only solid thing left. My chest heaved as I tried to breathe, each inhale catching painfully before it could fully settle.

“You’re okay,” Oliver said again, his voice steady but closer now. “You’re here. You’re in the hospital. You’re alright.”

I shook my head instinctively, my body still caught somewhere between panic and reality. The words didn’t feel real yet. None of it did.

“I—I couldn’t—” I choked out, the sentence falling apart as another breath hitched sharply in my chest.

“I know,” he said quickly, not correcting me, not questioning it. One of his hands moved up behind my neck, steadying me as I struggled to stay upright. “Just breathe, alright? Slow it down.”

I tried, but it didn’t work at first. Each breath came too fast, too shallow, my chest tightening again as if the water was still there. My throat burned, my lungs aching as I fought to pull in enough air.

“I can’t—” I managed, my voice breaking under the strain.

“You can,” Oliver said, firm without being harsh. “You’re doing it right now. Just slow it down.”

His hand pressed lightly against my back, steady and grounding, not forcing anything, just there.

“In… and out,” he said quietly. “Focus on that.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to follow his voice instead of the panic. I drew in a breath, shaky and uneven, then pushed it back out again. It took longer than it should have, longer than it felt like it should have, but eventually the rhythm started to return.

My breathing slowed, not completely, not perfectly, but enough that the room began to come back into focus. The bed beneath me, the dim light from the television flickering softly against the wall, the steady presence in front of me holding everything together.

I was here.

Not there.

My grip on his shirt loosened slightly, though I didn’t let go entirely. My hands trembled where they rested, the leftover adrenaline still running through me in waves. Oliver didn’t pull away. He stayed exactly where he was, letting me settle at my own pace without rushing me past it.

“Nightmare?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.

I nodded weakly, swallowing hard as the memory clung to me.

“I was drowning,” I whispered, my throat still tight. “I couldn’t get up… I couldn’t breathe…”

The words felt fragile as they left me, like they could break apart if I pushed them any further.

Oliver didn’t interrupt. He didn’t dismiss it or try to explain it away. He just nodded slightly, like it made sense without needing to be questioned.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “You’re not there anymore. You’re here.”

His hand pressed lightly against my back again, steady and real.

“You’re breathing,” he added, softer this time. “You’re okay.”

I focused on that, on the air moving in and out of my lungs, on the rise and fall of my chest even if it still felt tight and unfamiliar. It took a few more seconds before the panic finally loosened its grip enough for me to think clearly again.

“It felt real,” I said after a moment, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Oliver replied. “Those kinds of dreams don’t let go easy.”

The room fell quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty. His presence stayed steady beside me, a constant reminder that I wasn’t alone this time, that when I woke up there was actually someone there.

After a while, my breathing evened out enough that I could lean back against the pillows again. My body still felt shaky, drained in a way that went deeper than just being tired. Oliver adjusted the blanket slightly, his movements slower now, more careful, like he didn’t want to disrupt whatever calm had settled.

“You’re okay,” he said again, quieter this time.

I nodded faintly, though I wasn’t sure I fully believed it yet. My eyes drifted toward the ceiling, watching the faint glow of the television reflect against it as sleep lingered at the edges of my thoughts, waiting for me to slip back into it.

I didn’t want to go back.

But I didn’t have the strength to stay awake forever either.

“Can you… stay?” I asked quietly, the words coming out before I could stop them.

There was a brief pause, just long enough for me to wonder if I shouldn’t have said it.

“Yeah,” Oliver said simply. “I’m right here.”

He didn’t move, didn’t make anything of it. He just stayed where he was, steady and present, and this time when the darkness started to creep back in, it didn’t feel quite as empty as before.

The next morning came slower than the one before it.

Sleep hadn’t been restful, even without the nightmare returning. It felt thinner somehow, like my body never fully let go of being awake. Every sound pulled at me just enough to keep me from sinking too deep, and by the time the light started filtering into the room again, I was already staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen.

The dull ache behind my eyes had settled into something manageable, but the rest of me still felt off. My body was heavy, sore in ways that didn’t feel like they would fade anytime soon, and even breathing felt like something I had to think about more than I should.

A soft knock broke through the quiet, followed by the door opening before I could respond.

A woman stepped inside and closed it gently behind her. She wasn’t dressed like the nurses—no scrubs, no badge clipped to her chest—just simple clothes that didn’t draw attention to themselves. She paused just inside the room for a moment, like she was giving me time to notice her before moving any closer.

I watched her.

She noticed that, too.

“Hey,” she said, her voice calm but careful, like she was choosing each word before letting it out. “You must be Zachary.”

I didn’t answer right away. My fingers shifted slightly against the blanket, but that was it. I wasn’t sure what she expected from me, and I didn’t feel like guessing.

She didn’t push for a response. Instead, she moved toward the chair beside the bed and sat down slowly, leaving a small but noticeable space between us.

“My name’s Karen,” she continued after a moment. “Karen Stevens. I’m your new social worker.”

The word new settled heavily in my chest, tightening something I didn’t want to look at too closely. I dropped my gaze to my hands, focusing on the way my fingers rested against the fabric instead of whatever that feeling was trying to turn into.

Karen seemed to pick up on the shift without reacting to it directly. “I’ve been stopping by to check on you,” she added, her tone steady. “You just haven’t been awake long enough for us to actually meet.”

I tried to think back, but everything after the hospital blurred together into pieces that didn’t connect. Faces. Voices. Movement. None of it stayed long enough to feel real.

“I don’t remember,” I said quietly.

“That’s okay,” she replied without hesitation, the answer coming easily, like she had already expected it. “You don’t need to.”

There was no disappointment in her voice, no pressure to try harder. Just a simple acceptance that made something in my chest loosen slightly before I could stop it.

She rested her hands loosely in her lap, her posture relaxed but not careless. She wasn’t leaning forward, wasn’t trying to close the distance between us in a way that felt forced.

“I’m not going to pretend I know everything you’ve been through,” she said after a moment, her voice lowering just slightly. “And I’m definitely not going to pretend I can fix it.”

That made me look up.

Most adults didn’t say things like that. They usually tried to sound like they had answers, like they could put everything back together if you just listened to them long enough.

Karen didn’t look like that.

Her expression stayed steady as she continued, choosing her words more carefully now. “But I do know that the person who was supposed to be looking out for you before… didn’t do their job the way they should have.”

My fingers tightened slightly against the blanket, the fabric bunching under my grip.

She noticed.

“I’m sorry for that,” she said quietly, and this time there was something more deliberate in the way she spoke, like she wasn’t saying it just because she was supposed to. “I know that doesn’t fix anything, and I don’t expect it to. I just think you deserve to hear it from someone who should’ve been there in the first place.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to.

Sorry didn’t mean much. It never really had. It didn’t change what happened, and it didn’t make anything better afterward.

Karen didn’t seem surprised by the silence. If anything, she leaned back slightly, giving me a little more room without making it obvious.

“I’m not expecting you to trust me,” she went on, her tone steady again. “Not today. Maybe not for a while. That’s your call.”

The words didn’t come out like a promise or a speech. They just… sat there, simple and direct.

“But I am going to keep showing up,” she added. “And I’m going to do what I’m supposed to do. The right way.”

I watched her for a moment, trying to find something in her expression—something that felt off, something I could hold onto as a reason not to believe her.

I didn’t find anything.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Just that I couldn’t see it yet.

“…okay,” I said finally, the word quiet and uncertain, more of an acknowledgment than anything else.

Karen nodded once, like that was enough for now, and didn’t try to push it any further.

“That’s fair,” she said, her voice softening slightly.

The room settled into a quiet that didn’t feel as heavy as before. It wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but it wasn’t pressing in on me either. Karen didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t try to keep talking just to keep control of the moment.

She just stayed where she was.

And for the first time, that didn’t feel like something I needed to brace against.

The afternoon settled in slowly, the light shifting from gray to something warmer as it filtered through the window. It wasn’t bright enough to feel comforting, but it was different from the dull stillness of the morning. The room felt quieter again, like everything had settled into a rhythm I hadn’t quite learned yet.

I had been awake for most of it, not doing anything, just watching. Time passed in pieces that didn’t always connect, marked by the low hum of the television and the occasional movement in the hallway outside. My body still ached from earlier, the exercises leaving behind a soreness that hadn’t faded yet, and every shift I made in the bed reminded me how weak I still was.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet before it opened.

Karen stepped inside again, this time with a little more certainty in the way she moved. She still paused just inside the doorway, though, like she was giving me the same space as before. There was something slightly different about her expression now—not forced, not overly bright, but more focused.

“Hey,” she said gently as she stepped further into the room. “How’re you holding up?”

I shrugged faintly, my fingers shifting against the blanket again.

“Okay, I guess.”

Karen nodded, accepting the answer without pushing it further. She moved to the chair and sat down, keeping that same careful distance she had before.

“I didn’t want to wait too long to come back,” she said after a moment. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, but I didn’t want to just drop it on you earlier.”

That made me glance up at her, my chest tightening slightly without warning.

“It’s nothing bad,” she added quickly, noticing. “I just want you to hear it at your pace.”

I didn’t respond right away, but I didn’t look away either.

Karen took a small breath before continuing. “I’ve been working on finding you a placement,” she said. “Somewhere you can go once you’re discharged.”

The word settled heavily, even if I didn’t react to it outwardly. Of course. That was how this worked.

“I wouldn’t bring it up if I didn’t feel good about it,” she continued. “And I didn’t want to introduce anyone to you unless I was sure they were worth your time.”

I swallowed slightly, my throat tightening.

“Who is it?” I asked quietly.

Karen hesitated just long enough for it to feel intentional.

“You’ve already met one of them,” she said. “More than once.”

Confusion pulled at me as I tried to place that, but nothing fully stuck.

“I asked her to step out for a minute so I could talk to you first,” Karen explained, glancing toward the door. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Before I could respond, she nodded toward the door.

“You can come in.”

The door opened, and Natalie stepped back into the room.

Relief came before I could stop it. It was small, quiet, but there—something in my chest loosening just a little at the sight of her. She gave me a soft smile as she moved to her usual spot near the bed, her presence steady in a way that had become familiar.

But she wasn’t alone.

Someone followed her in.

A man.

He stepped in slower than she had, stopping just inside the room instead of moving closer right away. He didn’t try to take up space. If anything, it felt like he was making sure he didn’t.

I watched him without meaning to.

He noticed.

But he didn’t react to it.

“I don’t understand,” I said quietly.

Natalie’s hand rested lightly over mine, grounding, the same way it always did. “This is Greg,” she said gently. “My husband.”

My eyes shifted between them, the connection forming but not settling.

Karen filled in the rest. “They’ve been talking about fostering for a while,” she explained. “And after spending time with you, they wanted to see if this could be a good fit.”

“With me?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Greg stepped forward then, but only a little, like he was meeting me halfway instead of closing the distance entirely. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and steady, carrying a warmth that didn’t feel forced.

“Only if you want it to be,” he said. “No one’s making that decision for you today.”

That made me hesitate.

“We just wanted to meet you,” he continued. “Actually meet you, now that you’re awake. Talk a little, if that’s alright.”

I studied him, waiting for something to shift—for something underneath his words to show through.

It didn’t.

“What if I’m not?” I asked quietly.

Greg didn’t hesitate. “Then nothing changes,” he said. “You stay here. We head out. And if you decide later you want to talk, we come back.”

No pressure. No edge. Just… simple.

My fingers tightened slightly against the blanket as another thought surfaced.

“…won’t you get in trouble?” I asked. “For being here? For missing work?”

Greg blinked once, like the question caught him off guard, but his expression softened almost immediately.

“No,” he said, a faint smile touching his voice. “I took some time off.”

He shifted slightly, resting a hand against the back of the chair instead of moving closer.

“I work at a law firm,” he added. “They’ll manage without me for a bit.”

That didn’t make sense. People didn’t do that.

Not for me.

I looked down, something tight settling in my chest.

“Why?” I asked quietly.

The room stilled for a moment.

Greg didn’t rush his answer.

“Because I wanted to be here,” he said simply.

No explanation. No buildup. Just that.

I didn’t know what to do with it.

The silence lingered for a few seconds before Natalie shifted slightly beside me, her hand giving mine a small, reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve gotta finish up my shift soon,” she said gently, glancing between Greg and me. “But I’ll be back in the morning, okay?”

I nodded faintly.

She gave my hand one last squeeze before letting go, stepping back from the bed. Karen stood as well, smoothing a hand over the front of her shirt as she glanced toward the door.

“I’m going to walk out with her,” Karen said. “There are a couple things I want to go over before tomorrow.”

Natalie nodded, already heading for the door. The two of them stepped out together, the door closing softly behind them.

The room didn’t feel empty.

Just quieter.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then Greg moved.

He reached for one of the chairs near the wall and dragged it a little closer to the bed, the sound soft against the floor. He didn’t rush it or try to make it seem like anything more than it was. When he sat down, it wasn’t too close—just close enough that he didn’t have to raise his voice.

Not close enough to crowd me.

Just… there.

He glanced toward the television for a moment before picking up the remote from the tray beside the bed. Turning it over once in his hand, he held it out toward me.

“Here,” he said easily. “Find something boring.”

I hesitated before taking it, my fingers brushing his briefly before pulling back. The remote felt unfamiliar in my hand, heavier than it should have been.

Greg leaned back slightly in the chair, settling in like he wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

“Something really boring,” he added, a faint hint of humor in his voice. “That way neither of us gets distracted while we’re supposed to be talking.”

For a second, I just stared at it.

Then, before I could stop it, the corner of my mouth lifted slightly.

It wasn’t much.

But it happened.

I looked down quickly, pressing a button at random as the television flickered to a different channel. Some kind of documentary filled the screen—low voices, slow pacing, nothing that demanded attention.

Boring.

Just like he said.

I adjusted it once more before letting the remote rest in my lap, my fingers curling loosely around it as I kept my eyes on the screen.

Greg didn’t rush to start talking.

He let the quiet settle naturally, like he wasn’t trying to force anything out of me.

“Good choice,” he said after a moment, glancing at the screen. “I think I’ve already learned at least three things I didn’t need to know.”

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t shut down either.

The silence that followed felt different—not heavy, not waiting for something to go wrong.

Just… open.

And for the first time since he walked in—

I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for what came next.