Page 137 of The Grumpy Defenseman
I touched it with one fingertip.
He did not wake.
Same man.
Different quiet.
I slid out of bed and found his shirt on the floor. The gray one. I pulled it on and padded into the kitchen.
The coffee took me longer than it should have. His setup was simple, but not intuitive to a woman who believed coffee should come with a person paid to make it correctly. I opened two cabinets before I found the grounds and measured by instinct, which was not the same as skill.
The machine began its small mechanical ritual.
Beside it sat a stack of game notes held down by a puck. His handwriting was clipped in the margins. Controlled. Efficient. Evan,even in ink.
My camera bag sat by the door where I had left it the night before.
I looked at it.
Then away.
Then back again.
The morning light was perfect.
Of course it was.
Photographers spent half their lives chasing light like that and the other half pretending they were not sentimental about it.
I pulled out my Canon and checked the settings by habit. Aperture. White balance. Exposure.
Then I waited.
A few minutes later, the bed shifted. Bare feet crossed the hall. Water ran in the bathroom. Then Evan appeared in the kitchen doorway, shirtless because I had stolen his shirt, eyes still holding the last edge of sleep.
There was a crease on one cheek from the pillow.
He went straight for the coffee maker. Poured a cup. Brought it to his mouth.
Steam lifted into the light.
For one second, he existed in a frame so perfect it hurt: sleep-soft, unguarded, standing in his own kitchen like he belonged to the life around him.
My hand tightened on the camera.
Old instinct said shoot.
New trust said wait.
I lifted the Canon.
He saw me before I pressed the shutter.
His eyes met mine over the rim of the mug.
Neither of us moved.
The question sat between us without needing words.
