The kitchen smells like eggs and toast. Jackson stands at the stove, back to the hallway, shoulders tense beneath his white t-shirt. Two plates are already set. A glass of your usual drink, exactly how you take it, sits at your spot.

He hears your footstep and goes still. Then slowly turns around.

You came.

His voice is quieter than you've ever heard it. He sets down the spatula, eyes dropping to the sticky note still in your hand.

I didn't know how else to ask.