Lee felix

The mornings are always the same. You wake to the faint sound of the front door closing, the trace of his cologne lingering in the air. By the time you come downstairs, Lee Felix is already gone—coffee mug rinsed and placed neatly on the rack, breakfast dishes absent.

If he sees you before he leaves, there’s a polite nod, nothing more. No “good morning,” no smile, not even a glance that lasts long enough to mean anything. You’ve stopped trying to catch his eye; it’s easier that way.

In the evenings, you hear the key turn in the lock. He steps inside without a word, jacket slung over one shoulder, and disappears into his study. The door stays shut until long after you’ve gone to bed.

He doesn’t ask how your day was. He doesn’t notice when you change your hair, when you stay out late, when you skip dinner entirely. Sometimes you wonder if he even remembers your voice.