Morning arrived quietly, wrapped in rain.
Low gray clouds pressed down on the city, flattening buildings into soft, shapeless silhouettes. Water slid down the apartment windows in slow, uneven lines, tapping gently against the glass—persistent, calm, almost comforting. The sound filled the apartment with a steady rhythm, replacing the silence that usually felt too loud.
Tom opened his eyes slowly.
For a long moment, he didn't move. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling as the sound of rain worked its way into his awareness. His body ached in familiar places—hands stiff, shoulders tight, lower back sore from long hours of lifting—but his chest felt strangely light. As if something heavy had shifted during the night.
No alarm.
No rush.
No obligation waiting to drag him out of bed.
A couple of days off… finally.
The thought felt fragile, almost unreal. Days without warehouses, without schedules, without the dull exhaustion that came from repeating the same motions until time blurred together. Time that didn't belong to anyone else.
Maybe I can finally do something that isn't just surviving.
Laura's voice surfaced in his mind, uninvited but welcome.
We could watch movies together sometime.
He stared at the ceiling, considering it.
Maybe today.
From the other room came faint movement—the soft sound of a door opening, footsteps crossing the floor. Laura was awake too.
Tom pushed himself upright and rubbed his face, exhaling slowly. The decision formed without overthinking, simple and quiet.
I'll make breakfast.
In the kitchen, he moved carefully, almost deliberately. He cracked the eggs cleanly into a bowl, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He whisked them slowly, the soft clink of metal against glass grounding him. Coffee grounds filled the filter, releasing a rich, bitter scent that tugged at memories he didn't invite but didn't push away either.
His father standing at the stove.
Sleeves rolled up.
Humming under his breath without realizing it.
A person must eat first, his father used to say. Then save others.
Tom swallowed and turned on the stove.
Butter melted into the pan with a quiet hiss.
A few minutes later, a door opened behind him.
Laura stepped into the hallway hesitantly, barefoot, as if unsure what kind of morning waited for her. Her hair was messy, strands falling loosely around her face. Dark circles lingered beneath her eyes, and her shoulders were slightly hunched, like someone still carrying the weight of the night.
"Morning…" she said softly.
Tom turned at once, his voice gentler without effort.
"Did you sleep okay?"
She hesitated, then shook her head slightly.
"Not really," she admitted. "Too many thoughts. They just… wouldn't stop."
Her voice was quiet, but he could hear the exhaustion in it. She drifted toward the bathroom, movements slow, heavy with memories she didn't say out loud.
Tom watched her disappear behind the door, jaw tightening.
My night wasn't much better.
NovaCure.
Her uncle.
The men outside the bar.
How do I tell her without scaring her?
He poured the eggs into the pan, focusing on the sound—the sizzle, the smell, the simple certainty of cooking.
When Laura returned, her hair was brushed back and her face freshly washed. She took one step into the kitchen—and stopped.
The smell hit her immediately.
Eggs. Coffee. Warm food.
Her eyes widened slightly, and something softened in her expression.
"You made breakfast?" she asked, surprised. Then she smiled. "That smells really good."
Heat crept up Tom's neck.
"It's nothing special," he muttered. "Sit before it gets cold."
But the way her face brightened filled him with a quiet sense of satisfaction.
They sat at the small table together while rain tapped steadily against the windows. Outside, the world looked distant and muted. Inside, the apartment felt warmer than usual.
"This is really good," Laura said after a few bites. "You're going to spoil me."
Tom shrugged. "It's just eggs."
"It still counts," she replied, smiling.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while.
"So," Tom said eventually, glancing at her, "are you working today?"
She shook her head. "No. Day off. Tomorrow maybe, but I don't know yet." She looked at him. "What about you?"
"I'm off too," he said, then hesitated. "I was thinking… maybe today we could watch those movies you mentioned. If you want."
Her smile came easily.
"I'd love that. Especially today. Rainy days are perfect for staying inside."
She tilted her head. "But we need snacks."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "That's what I was thinking."
---
The Store
They dressed warmly and stepped outside with umbrellas.
The rain fell steadily, softening the city into a quieter version of itself. Cars moved slowly, tires hissing against wet pavement. Reflections shimmered everywhere.
"I like days like this," Laura said as they walked. "Everything feels slower."
"I like that it's harder to think," Tom replied. "The rain drowns things out."
She glanced at him, thoughtful. "That makes sense."
Inside the store, bright lights and noise wrapped around them.
Laura moved through the aisles with playful purpose, tossing things into the cart.
"These," she said, holding up candy. "And these."
"I don't usually eat sweets," Tom admitted.
"That's why today is special," she replied.
They filled the cart quickly. Popcorn. Chips. Chocolate. Soda. A bottle of wine Tom hesitated over before adding.
At checkout, Laura reached for her card, but Tom gently stopped her.
"I've got it," he said.
She didn't argue, just nodded. "Next time."
The word settled comfortably between them.
Outside, they walked close under one umbrella, shoulders brushing occasionally. Neither pulled away.
---
Back Home
They spread the snacks across the table, the apartment filling with the warm smell of pizza and the soft rustle of wrappers. Tom dimmed the lights until the room slipped into shadow, lit mostly by the TV's pale glow. Outside, the rain kept tapping against the windows, steady and unhurried.
They sat on the couch with a small gap between them—not distance, just caution.
The first movie was a thriller. Dark scenes, slow tension, sharp sounds that demanded attention. Laura leaned forward slightly, focused. Tom tried to watch, but his attention kept drifting—to the way she tucked her feet under herself, the way her fingers twisted the blanket when the music tightened.
When the movie ended, Laura stretched. "That was good."
When it ended, Tom glanced sideways. "Horror?"
"You scared?" Laura teased.
"No."
Ten minutes into the movie, a sudden loud sound blasted through the speakers.
Tom flinched.
Laura laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.
"I'm sorry," she said between laughs. "That was cute."
He shook his head. "It wasn't scary."
"Sure," she said, still smiling.
After that, they switched to something calmer.
Romance.
Tom poured the wine. They sat closer now, legs brushing. Laura leaned into him slowly, testing whether he'd move away.
He didn't.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, careful and unsure, but firm enough to make her relax.
They shifted until they were half-lying on the couch, bodies pressed together in a way that felt natural rather than intentional.
Laura rested her head against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear.
With him, everything feels quiet.
Tom stared at the screen, barely registering it.
I don't remember the last time I felt like this.
The rain continued tapping against the windows. Their breathing slowly matched.
Eventually, Laura fell asleep.
Tom noticed when her breathing changed, slower and deeper. He stayed still, afraid of waking her.
Carefully, he adjusted the blanket around them.
Sleep came to him not long after.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And between them, something fragile but real continued to grow.