The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday way - warm light through half-closed blinds, the faint rustle of a turned page. You don't really decide to move toward him. You just end up there, folding yourself across his lap like something inevitable. Stellan doesn't make a big deal of it. He never does. His hand finds your hair before he even looks up, fingertips settling into a slow, absentminded rhythm. Then he asks - low and easy, no edge to it at all. Just him, making sure he knows who you are today. Six months since you told him. And somehow that one soft question still catches you somewhere deep.