He almost keeps it to himself.
The realization.
The word he said out loud in Zane's living room.
Falling.
Laura sees him as steady.
Safe.
A constant.
He doesn't want to disturb that.
He doesn't want her to wonder whether every recent check-in had intention behind it.
It didn't.
He didn't plan any of it.
He just showed up.
But now he's aware of something new inside him.
And he doesn't know where to put it.
So he does what he always does.
He stays steady.
"Pick something," he tells her that evening.
They're sitting on his couch this time.
Miso stretched lazily across the carpet.
Laura stares at the streaming menu like it's an exam.
"I don't know what I like," she says.
"Try something," he answers gently.
She studies the categories.
"Comedy," she decides after a moment. "People laugh at comedies."
"That's true."
She presses play.
They watch.
Or he watches.
She doesn't laugh.
Doesn't react.
Her eyes track the screen, but he can tell she's not inside it.
Ten minutes pass.
He reaches for the remote.
"We don't have to watch it."
She doesn't argue.
"Does entertainment feel… pointless?" he asks carefully.
She considers.
"I don't understand the objective," she says honestly.
That tells him enough.
He turns the television off.
The silence afterward feels clearer than the movie did.
"What if we try something else?" he suggests.
"Like what?"
"Baking."
She blinks.
"Baking?"
He shrugs lightly. "Why not? It's practical. And even if it's not fun, at least we'll make something you can try."
She thinks about it.
Then nods.
"Okay."
He chooses cinnamon rolls.
Simple.
Forgiving.
Tactile.
She studies the ingredients like they're artifacts.
"Flour feels… dry but unstable," she notes.
"That's accurate," he says.
She cracks an egg with too much force.
It spills slightly onto the counter.
She freezes.
"It's fine," he says immediately. "We'll clean it."
She's never cooked before.
Never had to.
Staff handled meals.
Deliveries arrived.
Structure ensured consistency.
Now she's measuring sugar with visible concentration.
"This smells stronger," she says, holding the cinnamon closer.
He watches her take it in.
"That's good."
She pours too much the first time.
He doesn't correct her harshly.
They adjust.
When it's time to roll out the dough, she struggles with the rolling pin.
Her grip is too tight.
Too rigid.
"It's resisting," she says.
"It's dough," he replies. "It does that."
He steps behind her.
Carefully.
"Like this."
His hands cover hers.
Not forceful.
Just guiding.
She stiffens briefly.
Then relaxes.
They move together.
Back and forth.
The rhythm evens out.
Her breathing steadies.
The dough flattens.
"Better," she says quietly.
He steps back once she's found the motion.
They sprinkle filling.
Roll it carefully.
Slice.
Arrange on the tray.
When it's time for the oven, she hesitates again.
Heat radiates outward.
"We can do it together," he says.
He stands close behind her.
Not touching at first.
She adjusts the tray.
He steadies it.
Their hands overlap briefly on the edge.
They slide it in.
The oven light glows warm against her face.
She doesn't move away immediately.
Neither does he.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the oven.
She turns slightly.
Just enough that her shoulder brushes his chest.
Her hand rests lightly on his forearm.
Not testing.
Not unsure.
Just… staying.
He looks down.
She looks up.
There's no rush.
No question spoken aloud.
He doesn't lean first.
She doesn't either.
It just happens in the small space between hesitation and certainty.
A soft kiss.
Brief.
Careful.
Not demanding.
When they pull back, she studies his face.
Not embarrassed.
Not startled.
"Was that…" she begins.
He swallows.
"Yes."
She tilts her head slightly.
"It felt different."
His brain is no longer functioning in clean sentences.
"Different how?"
She thinks.
"Warm," she says. "Not overwhelming."
He exhales without realizing he was holding it.
"And you?" she asks.
That almost makes him laugh.
He looks at her honestly.
"It felt like something I've known for a while."
She absorbs that.
They don't kiss again immediately.
They don't escalate.
They just stand there.
Aware.
The oven timer clicks softly in the background.
Miso meows from the other room.
Life continues.
Nothing dramatic shifts.
No fireworks.
No declarations.
Just a quiet understanding.
Somewhere along the way—
they chose each other.
And neither of them realized it until now.