Erroneously, Larkin had suspected Doyle was one of those chipper early-risers, much like Noah, and had braced for conversation before coffee stabilized his mood. But much to his surprise and delight, Doyle was rather quiet. Reflective, almost. For the first few days, Larkin had actually felt as if he’d intruded on something personal, intimate, and had stayed in the bedroom until Doyle left for work. Doyle had caught on, of course, and said he’d be only more than happy to see Larkin’s smile in the mornings, which was presumptuous of Doyle, except that he’d been able to coax one out of Larkin forty days running so far.

At the sound of Larkin’s heels on hardwood, Doyle raised his head and looked across the studio. His face had this way of lighting up whenever Larkin walked into a room, like the first rays of sunshine to reach over the horizon at dawn, that always made Larkin want to check over his shoulder, because no one had ever stared at him quite like that before.

“Good morning,” Doyle said in that soft, whiskey voice. He wore a dark teal three-piece suit with a very subtle windowpane pattern, the coat thrown over the back of his chair, white shirt with the cuffs rolled back, and a simple black tie. The blue flattered his skin tone and dark eyes and always had a way of making Larkin feel short of breath.

“Morning,” Larkin answered. He got himself a cup of coffee from the counter, a protein bar from the cupboard, and took a seat across from Doyle. He wrapped his hands around the mug and studied the lazy, counterclockwise spiral from stirring in cream for approximately twenty-three seconds before Larkin heard Doyle set aside his pen. He glanced at it. Like others scattered around the home, this pen cap had been chewed. Larkin looked up.

Doyle had one eyebrow raised in question.

“I feel like I should apologize to you,” Larkin stated.

“For what?”

“For… leading you on. Last night.”

Doyle folded his hands on the tabletop.

“It’s not that I’m not interested,” Larkin continued.

—but when you look at me….

“I’m just trying to make sense of my life.”

—how do I say yes….

“And I don’t know how long it will take.”

—when you’re nothing but a mystery?

Doyle reached a hand across the table and pulled one of Larkin’s away from his mug. It was dry, warm, his calluses familiar. “More than anything, I want to be your friend.”

Larkin whispered, “You are.”

A car alarm chirped from the street below.

The window unit one floor above them kicked on with a worrying grind.

Doyle squeezed Larkin’s hand, smiled. “Don’t apologize.” He let go, pushed his chair back, and stood. “How about something more substantial for breakfast?”