The next morning, Thomas woke up to an unusual stillness.
He sat up slowly, glancing at the clock on his nightstand.
5:07 a.m.
Too early for Julian.
Julian usually didn't stir until 7:00 or 7:30—later, if he'd been up working the night before. But now, the other side of the room was empty. The blanket on Julian's bed was half-folded, as if he'd left in a quiet hurry.
Thomas pushed off his blanket and stood, bare feet touching the cold floor. He walked toward the kitchen, his steps quiet. But the lights were off, and the kitchen was empty. No humming of an electric kettle, no sound of clinking dishes. Just silence.
He returned to the room and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed vaguely on the window where the first threads of sunrise bled faintly through the curtains.
Then—click.
The door creaked open behind him.
Thomas turned quickly.
Julian entered, hair messy, wearing a hoodie that looked like he'd pulled it on in a rush. In his hand was a small paper bag. He didn't notice Thomas at first, his gaze fixed on setting his keys down with a soft jangle on his desk.
Then he glanced across the room and paused. His eyes met Thomas's.
"Oh—you're awake," Julian said, voice still groggy, surprised but trying to sound casual.
"Yeah," Thomas replied, his tone neutral. He looked back at the window, avoiding Julian's gaze.
Julian hesitated for a second, then grabbed the paper bag again and walked toward Thomas. The sound of his footsteps—soft but deliberate—made Thomas glance up.
Julian stopped just in front of him and extended the bag.
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
"What's that?" he asked, his voice still low from sleep.
"Uh… food?" Julian said, as if he wasn't quite sure either.
"For what?"
"For helping me with the documentary. I only know how to cook eggs and sausages, so don't expect anything gourmet or emotional. Just—take it. It's not poisoned, I swear." He tried to make it sound offhand, but the stiffness in his voice betrayed how awkward he felt.
Thomas looked at the bag for a second, then took it. His fingers brushed Julian's, just briefly.
He placed the bag on his desk without saying anything.
Julian turned to walk away, but before reaching his bed, he glanced over his shoulder. "Don't throw it away," he said quickly, eyes not meeting Thomas's. "I woke up early for that."
Thomas didn't answer.
Julian sat on his bed, pulling his knees up and burying his face in his arms, pretending to scroll through his phone. But his ears were pink. Thomas noticed.
He stared at the paper bag for a long moment. The smell of warm bread and something faintly sweet was starting to fill the room.
He looked at Julian again. The back of his hoodie was wrinkled from having slept in it, and his hair stuck out in uneven directions. He was pretending very hard to be nonchalant.
Thomas reached for the bag, opened it, and saw two carefully wrapped sandwiches and a small thermos.
There was a napkin folded inside too—with a doodle on it.
A tiny cat, biting someone's hand. The words underneath read: "Thanks, genius."
Thomas blinked once. Then again.
He didn't smile. But something in his chest softened. And tightened.
He turned toward Julian, who was still pretending to be busy.
"…Did you draw this?" Thomas asked, holding up the napkin.
Julian looked up with a start, caught off-guard. "Uh. Maybe. You can throw that away if you want."
Thomas folded the napkin again and slid it into his drawer without a word.
Julian didn't say anything else. But he glanced at the drawer when Thomas wasn't looking, heart beating a little faster.