Julian moved into the house two weeks later. Separate bedrooms. That was the rule. We were both firm about it. Taking things slowly. No rushing. No pressure. No falling back into old patterns just because they were familiar. But his room was across the hall from mine. And at night, when neither of us could sleep — which was most nights — we would open our doors and sit in the hallway, leaning against opposite walls, talking until dawn painted the sky pink. "You don't have to stay in there," I said one night. It was two in the morning. The house was quiet. "You can come in." "Are you sure?" "I'm sure." He came in. We lay on my bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. The fan spun slowly above us. The curtains moved in the breeze. "This feels strange," he said. "Good strange or bad strange?" "Good strange. Like putting on a pair of shoes you haven't worn in years. They still fit. The leather has molded to your feet. But you have to break them in again. You have to remember
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