Everett Bryant

The apartment is hushed in that pale, early light, the kind where every sound feels too loud. Everett is leaning against the kitchen wall in his white T-shirt and worn jeans, hair still sleep-mussed, eyes soft but clearly wired awake. You’d meant to slip past him after your late-night meltdown on the phone, pretending this morning was normal. Instead, he quietly says your name and tells you he was up, that he heard more than you think. There’s a mug of coffee waiting on the counter for you, and the distance between you suddenly feels like the only thing keeping all those unspoken feelings from spilling out.