𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒔

forty one

"when you're at your lowest, you realize a lot"

The early light filtered through the curtains, brushing soft streaks of pale gold across the guest room. I shifted, disoriented for a moment, my mind catching up to the unfamiliar feel of the bed and the dim memories of last night.

I pieced it together slowly—the games, the laughter that felt so foreign, the way Cato just... let things be easy. And somewhere along the way, I'd drifted off, trusting him enough to fall asleep without worry.

I sat up, the blanket slipping from my shoulders, and stretched, blinking away the remnants of sleep. I didn't remember getting here. Had he—?

The realization hit me, leaving a strange warmth in its wake.

He must have carried me, setting me down carefully, like I'd always belonged in a quiet space like this. And for a split second, that thought was more comforting than I could explain.

The smell of coffee drifted into the room, and my stomach clenched, both from the sharp craving and the usual reflex to ignore it.

I wrapped the blanket around me and made my way down the hallway. Cato was already up, his hair slightly messy, and he looked almost lost in his own world as he stared into his coffee mug. His eyes flickered up as I approached, nodding a quiet good morning without a word.

"Sleep alright?" His voice was low, casual, as if this were normal—me, here, in his kitchen.

I shrugged, sitting across from him at the kitchen island. "I guess. Thanks for, you know..." I gestured to the guest room, feeling awkward under his gaze.

"No problem," he replied, but there was a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes, something he wasn't saying. "You hungry?"

The word hung in the air between us. I knew he didn't mean it like a challenge, but the way he watched me—a subtle shift in his gaze—made it clear he noticed the way I'd been shrinking. I looked away, feeling that familiar knot of anxiety. "Not really," I said, keeping it casual, brushing it off. But Cato didn't let his eyes leave mine.

"I could make something simple. Eggs or toast." His tone was nonchalant, but it didn't take much to see past that.

I hesitated, my instinct to deflect clashing with the faint pull of trust that had formed between us. "I'm okay," I replied, not meeting his eyes, but the silence that followed felt like it stretched forever.

Cato watched me, his face unreadable. He didn't push, though. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee and let his gaze wander somewhere past me, a soft look in his eyes like he was remembering something. "You know, I get it... sometimes you just don't feel like it. Food, I mean." His words were quiet, almost as if they weren't meant to be said aloud.

I looked up, something in his tone catching me off guard. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's... strange," he said slowly. "How stuff like that can feel like a weight, even if you know it shouldn't."

A part of me wanted to deflect, brush his words aside, but another part—the part that had started letting him in—felt that tension ease slightly. "Guess you'd get it then," I said, a hint of vulnerability slipping through before I could stop it. "It's not really about being hungry or not. It's... just complicated."

We sat in silence, a comfortable one, both of us lost in our own thoughts. It felt natural, as if the silence was our way of understanding each other without the need for words.

I didn't feel judged, or even pressured to say more than I already had.

Cato broke the silence, glancing at me with a half-smile, one of those rare ones that felt real. "I don't think anyone's ever figured it all out," he said. "We all just... do what we can, right?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

We sat there for a while, each taking slow sips of our coffee, watching the morning light shift through the kitchen windows. It was simple, but in its simplicity, there was a kind of comfort that I hadn't felt in a long time.

After a while, Cato looked at me, his gaze intense but not uncomfortable. "You know... if you ever want to talk about it," he started, "I'm not going anywhere."

It was a simple offer, but something about it struck a chord. I wasn't used to people wanting to stay. But with him, it felt like he meant it. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and he seemed to understand that was all I could give.

The morning drifted on in quiet conversation, the topics light and unpressured, our words flowing like we were old friends.

He told me stories from his past—little snippets of growing up, the things he found funny or ridiculous. I laughed, a genuine laugh that took me by surprise, and for a while, I forgot about everything else.

And as the morning sun rose higher, I couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, I could trust him with a little more of myself.

The thought was scary, but it didn't feel as impossible as it had before.