Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with something simple—Rupert claiming we were “running low on essentials,” though by that he mostly meant tea and another bottle of red for dinner.
So we pulled on our coats and wandered out into the early evening chill, the streets already humming with people heading home.

We ended up at the corner shop just before dinner, the kind with narrow aisles and shelves stacked almost to the ceiling. Rupert steered the cart like it weighed a ton, already loaded with tea, wine, and the sort of heavy cans he insisted on carrying instead of me.

I hovered by the pasta sauces, turning two jars over in my hands.
“This one’s perfect. Tomato, basil, nice and simple.”

He reached over my shoulder, plucking the spiciest jar on the shelf.
“Or we could have this. Extra chili. Clears the sinuses, saves lives.” He held it up like he was in a commercial, turning the label toward me with that mock-serious face of his.

I shot him a look. “Saves lives? More like ruins stomachs. You’ll be coughing through the night.”

“I’m tougher than that.” He gave me a half-smile, dimples just visible. “I can take a bit of heat.”

“Sure, but I’m the one kissing you later. Think about me.”
That earned me a low laugh, and he reluctantly set his jar back.

At the register, he paid before I could even reach for my wallet, gathering the bags in both hands like it was nothing. Bottles clinked, the plastic stretched dangerously, but he carried it all easily, glancing sideways at me as we stepped into the cool evening.

“Half of that’s mine,” I said, reaching out. “Let me take one.”
He hesitated, pretending to think it over, then handed me the lighter bag with a teasing, "Fine. Don't say I never let you help."

“What?” he asked when he caught me smiling.
“Nothing,” I said. “You just… look good like that.”
“Carrying half the shop?”
“Exactly.”

He shook his head, amused, shifting the heavier bag to one side so his other hand could find mine. Our fingers entwined all the way home, warm against the evening chill, the plastic rustling and the faint clinking of bottles keeping time with our steps.

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Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled like garlic and simmering tomatoes long before I even stepped inside. Rupert was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moving with that loose, unhurried grace that never failed to draw me in. A wooden spoon in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, he stirred the sauce as if it were a ritual he’d performed a thousand times.

I slipped behind him, sliding my arms around his waist, cheek pressed to the warm space between his shoulder blades.
He jumped slightly, then chuckled. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“You’re too calm for that.” I tightened my grip. “Besides, you’re mine. I get to cling whenever I want.”
He tilted his head toward me, trying for stern but failing, dimples sneaking through.
“You’ll burn yourself,” he murmured, amusement flickering in his voice.
“You’ll burn the sauce,” I countered, smiling against his shirt.

His laugh rumbled low in his chest.
“You’re in the way.”
“I’m staying,” I whispered, only loosening my grip when he reached for the knife to slice a clove of garlic. I hovered a breath behind him then, hands resting lightly at his hips until the blade was down again—then immediately wrapped him up once more.

He shook his head but leaned back into me, just a little, as if to say he didn’t really mind.
“You know,” he said, tilting the spoon toward me so I could taste, “this would go faster if you helped.”
“I am helping,” I said, licking the sauce from the spoon. “Moral support.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, eyes bright with approval, silently telling him it was perfect.

He smirked, dimples just starting to show. “Moral support doesn’t chop parsley.”
I kissed the back of his neck, soft enough to make him shiver. “Then teach me.”

For a long moment we just stood there, swaying a little in time with the slow bubbling of the pot. His hand found mine at his waist, thumb brushing over my knuckles, gentle but certain. The kitchen felt like its own small world—steam curling against the windows, garlic thic in the air, his body warm beneath my hands.

When he finally turned, setting the spoon aside, there was a glint in his eye that made my heart tighten.
“Dinner’s going to take forever like this,” he muttered.
“Good,” I said, smiling against his skin. “That just means I get longer with you.”
He let out a soft huff of laughter, leaning in to nuzzle my nose before murmuring, “You’re trouble.”
“You like it,” I whispered back.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he kissed me—slow, tender, full of quiet affection.

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Chapter Text

We hadn’t meant to go far—just a short walk after dinner—but somehow we found ourselves by the river again. The air was cool and clear, the kind of early-summer night that smelled faintly of rain and cut grass. The lamplight shimmered across the surface of the water, breaking into gold and silver threads with every ripple.

“Didn’t we swear we’d stay in tonight?” I asked, smiling as I glanced sideways at him.
Rupert tilted his head, hands deep in his jacket pockets. “Did we?” His voice was soft, amused. “I think you swore that. I just agreed so you wouldn’t change your mind.”
I laughed quietly. “Good thing you’re better at persuasion than promises.”
“Only to keep you interested,” he teased.

We walked in silence for a while. The city hummed faintly behind us—distant cars, the occasional bark of a dog, a train passing somewhere beyond the buildings—but here, by the water, everything seemed slower, quieter. The reflection of the bridge lights danced on his face as we passed beneath them, softening the sharpness of his profile.

He looked up at the sky, then exhaled through his nose. “You can barely see any stars here.”

I followed his gaze. The clouds had cleared, and the night stretched open, wide and deep. A handful of stars blinked faintly above the haze of the city.

“Not enough for you?”
“Not nearly.” He smiled a little, wistful. “Where I grew up you could see hundreds. Thousands, even. The kind of sky that made you feel tiny. There was this old oak tree at the back of my grandparents’ place… I used to climb it and just lie on a branch for hours, watching the stars come out.”

His eyes softened, as if the memory itself warmed him. “Life was simpler then.”

The breeze stirred, lifting a strand of my hair across my cheek. Rupert reached out to tuck it behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Colder than I thought,” he murmured.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, though my hands were starting to go numb.
He gave me a look that said you’re a terrible liar, and caught my hand. Before I could protest, he slipped both of our hands into the pocket of his jacket.

The warmth of him hit instantly—the steady beat of his pulse beneath my fingers, the rough fabric brushing against my knuckles. His thumb traced lazy circles across the back of my hand, absentminded and intimate.

“Better now?” he said quietly.
“I think so,” I murmured, feeling my cheeks warm even though the air was cool.

For a moment, we just stood there, listening to the faint splash of water against the bridge pillars, the sigh of wind through the metal beams. Then, out of nowhere, a streak of light cut across the sky—fast, brilliant, gone before I could blink.

“Did you see that?” I gasped.
Rupert’s head tilted back, his eyes wide. “A shooting star,” he said, almost in disbelief.

“That was so fast!” I laughed, squeezing his hand. “Did you make a wish?”
“Of course,” he said solemnly. “Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t even have time!”
“Too slow.” He grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
I elbowed him lightly. “You’re supposed to tell me what you wished for.”

He shook his head. “That’d ruin it.”
“Oh, come on.”

He looked down at me, his smile softening. “If I tell you, it might stop coming true.”
“So it’s something good?”

His gaze lingered on my face for a long moment, then drifted upward again. “It’s something I already have.”

The words settled between us, quiet and sure. My chest tightened in that sweet, aching way it sometimes did when he said things like that—so simply, so unguardedly, it felt like the truth itself.

We stayed there until the chill deepened and the streetlights flickered against the dark water. Rupert shifted behind me, wrapping both arms around my shoulders and resting his chin lightly on my hair.

“Do you ever miss it?” I asked softly. “The countryside, I mean.”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “There’s a kind of silence there you can’t find here. But I like this too—the noise, the mess, the movement. It feels… alive. It makes you work to find your quiet.”
“Do you miss the stars, too?”
He smiled against my hair. “Not when you’re here.”
I laughed quietly, feeling my heart trip over itself. “That’s cheesy.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”

He turned me gently in his arms until I was facing him. “You love it,” he repeated, his voice a whisper that barely rose above the sound of the river.

The way he looked at me—steady, tender, a hint of mischief in his eyes—made me forget how fragile we really were.
“I might,” I said.
He bent his head, brushing his lips against my temple. “You definitely do.”

We started walking again, slower now, hand tucked back into his pocket.
Somewhere behind us, the last train rumbled across the tracks. Ahead, the lights of the street stretched like a promise.

“I still can’t believe we saw a shooting star,” I said, glancing back at the sky.
He looked at me, not the stars. “Me neither.”

The air had that sweet, damp scent of summer nights—stone cooling underfoot, faint traces of lilac from someone’s garden, the river breathing quietly beneath us.

He gave my hand a small squeeze, as if to seal the moment.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Before the stars decide to hide again.”

And we kept walking, the night folding around us like a quiet song,
our laughter drifting into the dark.

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Chapter Text

I heard the water start before I was fully awake. The pipes in our apartment always made that low humming sound, a kind of sleepy sigh that meant Rupert was already in the shower.

Sunlight spilled weakly through the curtains, soft and grey, and the air smelled faintly of his soap—clean, citrusy, unmistakably him.

I padded to the wardrobe, still half-asleep, and pulled out a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans he wore almost every day. I knocked lightly on the bathroom door.
“Rupe? I’ll leave these here, all right?”

A muffled voice came through the steam. “Thanks, love—give me five minutes.”

While he was in there, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, set the kettle on the stove, and slipped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

When he finally stepped out, towel slung around his waist, his hair was a wet tangle and his skin still pink from the heat. He looked alive in that quietly careless way of his, the morning light catching on every droplet. The faint trail of steam followed him out of the bathroom, curling over the lines of his shoulders and the smooth plane of his chest.
I caught myself staring—at the water sliding down his collarbone, the flex of muscle as he ran a hand through his hair—and my breath hitched, stupidly, like it was the first time.

“Oh?” His lips curved into that teasing half-smile. “Caught you staring, didn’t I?”

“Idiot.” I tried to look away, heat rising to my cheeks, but his quiet laugh told me he’d noticed.

“You should try showering at night, you know,” I said, folding my arms as he reached for his shirt.
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And miss the only thing that wakes me up before coffee?”
“It’s better for your skin,” I said, grinning. “All the day’s dirt, gone before bed. And it helps you sleep.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “Morning’s better. Tames the bedhead—and it makes me feel human before work.”
“You don’t have work today,” I pointed out.
He gave a small, mock-offended snort. “You sound like my mother.”
“Do I?”
“Well,” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting upward as he leaned in just a little, “she never looked that good saying it.”

I threw the towel at him. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he said, catching it easily, “but you like that.”

The kettle clicked in the kitchen, ready. The scent of toast drifted through the room.
Just another quiet morning—steam fading from the mirror, two mugs waiting side by side.

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Chapter Text

It started with a sigh.
Not even a dramatic one — just the kind that slips out on a lazy Saturday afternoon when the sun hits the living room just right.

“I think we need another bookshelf,” I said, balancing a cup of tea in one hand and a stack of magazines in the other. “These are starting to colonize the sofa.”

Rupert looked up from the magazine he’d been flipping through — something about travel and old architecture. “Another one, huh?”

“Well, unless you want to start sitting on Vogue,” I said.

He chuckled, set the magazine aside neatly, and looked around as if measuring the walls with his eyes. “Leave it with me.”

I blinked. “You mean, like, you’ll buy one?”

“No,” he said, with that half-smile of his. “I’ll make it.”

＊＊＊

I thought he was joking. But he disappeared for a couple of hours that afternoon, returning with a grin and a few long planks of pre-cut pine, nails, sandpaper, and what looked suspiciously like a new tool set.
“Found a DIY place down the road,” he said, unloading everything in the hallway. “They’ve got boards already cut to size — saves me from annoying the entire building with a saw.”

Then, with the air of a man about to explain the secrets of the universe, he added, “See, this way I just need to sand the edges, drill a few holes, and assemble. Easy.”
I laughed. “I see someone’s been watching way too many woodworking videos.”

By the time I finished clearing a space for him, he was already rolling up his sleeves and pushing the dining table aside.

“Wait...what? You’re doing this here?” I gaped, halfway between amusement and horror.

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Where else?”
He spread newspapers across the floor, turning our little London flat into a makeshift workshop.

“Just… please don’t annoy the neighbours,” I sighed, hovering in the doorway as he lined up a plank.

“I’ll be as quiet as a monk,” he murmured — right before the first thunk of a hammer.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling.

＊＊＊

Soon the flat smelled faintly of pine and varnish. He worked carefully, sanding, aligning, occasionally humming under his breath.
As he fitted the pieces together, he started talking — not about movies, not about work, but about this course he’d taken a few years back.
“Carpentry, sort of. Nothing fancy. I just realised I like working with my hands. Making something real, you know? Not scripts or scenes — actual things.”
There was something gentle in his voice when he said it. Something that made me stop pretending to scroll through my phone and just watch.

Hours later, it stood there — small, sturdy, imperfect in the most beautiful way.
He stood back to admire his work, wiping his hands on a rag. “Well… it won’t collapse under the Vogue invasion, at least.”

“It’s perfect,” I said softly, and before I knew it, I’d wrapped my arms around him from behind.
“Thank you,” I murmured against his shoulder.

He turned, smiling that small, quiet smile that always got me. “For what?”
“For this. For… making things feel like home.”

He brushed a bit of sawdust from my cheek with his thumb, then leaned down and kissed me — slow, warm, faintly tasting of pine and tea.

“Guess I’ll have to build something more often, then.”
I laughed, still in his arms. “Just… maybe a dining table next time?”

He smiled, that quiet, proud kind of smile that always undid me. “I like seeing you happy,” he added simply.

We filled it together, side by side — books, magazines, a few postcards tucked in between. When we finally stepped back, the room felt different. Warmer, somehow. Like his laughter and the soft scent of pine had seeped into the wood.

I still catch myself running my fingers along the edge sometimes, tracing the grain where his thumb must’ve pressed.
He said it wasn’t much.
But it’s held more than books ever since.

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Chapter Text

It was one of those lazy afternoons that made everything slow down. Soft light spilled through the curtains, the air warm and still.

He was stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, bare feet crossed at the ankles as he half-watched whatever was on TV.
I sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, idly scrolling through my phone, but somehow ended up half-leaning against his legs, tracing idle circles on his knee with my fingertip.

“Bored?” he asked, voice slow, eyes still on the TV.
“Not really,” I said, glancing up at him. “You’re nice to lean on.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, hand absently brushing through my hair.
For a moment, I just melted into that touch, closing my eyes.
Then silence settled between us—the only sounds were the faint hum of the TV and his slow, steady breathing.

Then I turned a little, resting my chin on his thigh.
“You’re ignoring me.” I said, voice light, teasing.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m watching something.”

He smiled without looking away from the screen.
“You just want attention.”
“Maybe.”
“Uh-huh.”
I poked his stomach lightly. He didn’t react.
“You like pretending you don’t care.”
I reached up and tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, fingertips grazing his skin.

That got his attention.
He looked down at me, eyes amused.
He caught my wrist, thumb grazing the inside of it—soft, careless, dangerous.
“That so?”
“Mm,” I murmured, leaning in just a bit. “You always do.”

His gaze dropped to my lips for half a second before he looked away again, like he hadn't meant to.
The TV kept playing, but neither of us was paying attention anymore.

I climbed up onto the couch beside him, tucking my legs beneath me.
“Comfortable now?” he asked, low.
“Almost.” My voice came out softer than I meant. “You could help, though.”

“How?”
“Like this.”
I brushed my nose against his shoulder, then pressed a small kiss there—barely a touch, almost playful.

He turned his head slightly, close enough for our breaths to mingle.
“You’re really asking for trouble, you know that?”
“Mm-hm.” My smile curved against his skin. “Then stop me.”

He didn’t argue this time.
He only reached up, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, drawing me closer until the space between us disappeared.

“…Bed?” he murmured, lips brushing mine.
I laughed softly, heartbeat skipping. “Yeah.”

He stood, lacing his fingers through mine, and the afternoon light followed us down the hall.

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Chapter Text

The light from the window had deepened into honey-gold, spilling across the sofa where we’d somehow ended up tangled together. His skin was warm against mine, his breath steady, as the shadows stretched longer; the day was sliding quietly toward evening.

“Why am I even dating an editor?” he murmured almost idly.

He leaned back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching, a faint crease between his brows as though he’d just realized something and was puzzling over it out loud.

I gave a soft laugh. “Good question.”

For a moment, I almost said something wicked — Because the sex is good, obviously — but I swallowed it. That sort of line would only make me sound small, insecure.

He tilted his head, still studying me with that calm, unhurried curiosity that could be disarming. The silence stretched, comfortable and fragile all at once.

I twirled a strand of his hair between my fingers, smiling lightly.

“Maybe you fell for my impeccable proofreading skills.”

Rupert gave a short laugh.
“Hardly. That’s a copy editor’s privilege, isn’t it?”

“Then maybe it’s my editor’s instinct, wanting to expose the man once voted ‘most tight-lipped actor in an interview.’ Well, that was an inside joke, of course.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, sinking deeper into the sofa.
“Terrifying.” His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing slowly along my skin.
“But you know me. My motto’s always been ‘say nothing unless necessary.’”

“I know. I’ve read it in more than one interview.” I teased.
“Along with ‘even if asked, I won’t tell,’ right?”

A rueful smile tugged at his mouth, softening the corners of his eyes.
“Exactly. Which is why you scare me a little.”

“Because you think I’d write some tell-all book about you?”

He chuckled, threading his fingers through mine.
“No. If you were that kind of woman, you wouldn’t be sitting here beside me.”

Silence settled between us.
From outside came the faint hum of traffic, distant and low.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead, saying nothing—
and yet, somehow, everything was said in that moment.

He had always been cautious around people like me: the ones who deal in words, who polish, trim, and rearrange the truth until it gleams.

I’d read enough of his old interviews to know he could be… difficult. A tricky interviewee, as one journalist had once put it. When he didn’t like the question, he didn’t bother to hide it; sometimes he’d turn it back on them, sharp and precise as a blade.

To be fair, I understood. Those features always began with some clever preamble — the writer showing off their prose, setting the mood — and ended with a teasing line or an anecdote, something to make the actor seem charming, or flawed, or human. It was all part of the craft. But reading between the lines, I could almost hear his dry laughter. “That’s how you people write, isn’t it?”

Maybe the chemistry between him and that particular journalist hadn’t been great, or maybe there were moments the article didn’t capture — things too honest, too unguarded, to ever make it to print. I could only imagine.

He’d once said, in another piece, that gossip ruins the art of watching: if you know too much about the actor, you stop seeing the character. “A performance should be experienced clean,” he’d insisted. “Without the noise.”

He was younger then, and tired, maybe from fame, or from being seen through someone else’s lens too many times. Which is probably why he looked at me now, an editor, and still couldn’t quite believe it.

And maybe that’s exactly why I loved him — the contradiction of it all.

He leaned back against the sofa, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, the other reaching for the cigarette pack on the table. The lighter clicked once, twice, before a small flame caught, painting his face in gold for a second.

Smoke curled upward, soft and pale in the dim light. It mingled with the faint scent of my perfume, of coffee that had gone cold.

I watched him for a moment — the quiet focus as he exhaled, the tiny squint of his eyes. He wasn’t posing; he never did. He just was. And somehow, that was rarer than anything I’d ever tried to capture in print.

When he noticed me watching, he smiled — that faint, lopsided one that never failed to melt me — and reached out, catching my wrist.

“Come here,” he murmured.

I did.

His arm circled my waist again, pulling me closer until my cheek rested against his shoulder. Outside, the evening light had thinned into blue-grey, the kind that makes time feel slower, softer. A siren wailed somewhere in the city, then faded.

“Still wondering why you’re with me?” I asked quietly.

He hummed, low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Not really.” A pause. Then, almost smiling: “I think I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it.”

His fingers brushed the back of my neck, a wordless stay.

And so I did — listening to the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of leaves outside the window, the rhythm of the city dimming into night.

Some stories, I thought, weren’t meant to be written.

Just lived.

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Chapter Text

I’d picked that hat myself—
a black-and-white checkered flat cap, the kind that made him look more like a poet than an actor.

He’d laughed when I handed it to him that afternoon.
“Really? I’m not eighty,” he’d said, but he still tried it on, tilting his head toward the mirror.
It had looked unfairly good on him, especially with the leather jacket and that black floral shirt he’d chosen.

Now, hours later, the hat sat tossed on the kitchen counter beside an empty wine glass and his watch.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the faint noise of the city outside. Rupert was in the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt, humming something low and tuneless.

“How was it?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
He shrugged, pulling the jacket off one shoulder. “The usual. Too much champagne, not enough food. Saw Ben, caught up with a few people from the theatre thing.”
He smiled a little. “Your hat got compliments, by the way.”

I was about to answer—something teasing, something warm—when I noticed the small white card lying on the floor just beside the counter, like it had fallen out without anyone noticing.
A business card.
Fine paper, glossy print.

Lyn** Ashc***t – Model Management.

And a number scrawled across the back in looping handwriting.

I felt my stomach drop.

“Rupert.”
He glanced up from where he was hanging his jacket. “Mm?”
I held up the card. “You forgot something.”

For a second, his expression didn’t change. Then he sighed, slow and heavy, like he’d seen this coming.
“Christ, really?”
“She wrote her number, Rupert.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He rubbed his jaw, the faintest smile tugging at one corner of his mouth—the kind that wasn’t really amused. “She was… pushy. I didn’t ask for it.”
“Then why bring it home?”

That hit. His jaw tensed. “Because it was shoved in my pocket while I was leaving. I didn’t even look at it. I’m sorry if that—”

But I was already shaking my head, not angry so much as… stung.
“She gave it to you in that hat, you know?” My voice cracked a little. “The one I picked out for you. It just—” I exhaled, fighting a smile that wouldn’t come. “It figures.”

For a moment, silence. The kind that stretches too thin.

Then, quietly, Rupert reached across the counter, took the card from my hand, and tore it clean in half.
And then again.

The paper made a sharp, small sound—one, two, three—before he dropped the pieces into the trash can.

“Better?” he asked softly.

I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to laugh it off, to make it nothing.
Instead, I just nodded. “...Yeah. Better.”

He stepped closer, brushing a thumb over my cheek, his voice low. “Hey. Don’t go doubting me now.”
“I’m not.” My voice was almost a whisper. “Not really.”

He kissed my forehead, lingering there, and for a second the world felt still again—the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the weight of the night.

But later, lying awake beside him, I could still see that looping handwriting every time I closed my eyes.

＊＊＊

When I opened my eyes, the world was tinted in that soft, grayish light before the sun fully wakes.

Rupert was already watching me, his blue eyes probing gently through the half-dark, like he was still trying to read what I felt.
For a second, neither of us spoke. The quiet felt full, as if it were holding its breath.

Then he reached out—slow, instinctive—and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.
His fingers lingered, warm and steady.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I murmured.
He gave a small shake of his head. “Didn’t want to.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between us.
The faint scent of him—sleep, skin, wine from last night—made something in my chest tighten.

Last night’s argument still flickered at the edge of my thoughts like smoke that hadn’t fully cleared.
But the way he looked at me now—unblinking, unguarded—there was no room left for doubt.

He traced my jaw with his thumb, then kissed me.
Not hungry, not apologetic. Just deep enough to say: this is real.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, breathing quietly against my lips, eyes open and steady on mine.

No words.
No promises.
Just that certainty.

I lifted my hand and let my fingers move through his hair—the short, bristly texture catching lightly against my fingertips, warm and soft in its own rough way.
He turned his head, kissing the inside of my wrist before resting his cheek there, eyes closed.

Something inside me eased—slowly, like a knot loosening.
Sunlight crept across the room, catching on the checkered hat on the chair, and for the first time since last night, I smiled without trying.

He must’ve felt it too, because his arm tightened around me, pulling me closer until our hearts pressed together—
quiet, synced, certain.

Outside, the city was waking.
But here, in this small pocket of morning, I knew:

There was no one else.

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