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The documentary hums in the background, something about migratory birds, but neither of them are really listening anymore. A narrator with a calm British voice is explaining instinct and distance and how some creatures travel thousands of miles just to return to the place they were born. The television light flickers softly across the walls, washing the room in blues and muted golds.
Lexi is stretched half over him, her cheek pressed to his chest, fingers idly tracing the seam of his T-shirt like she’s memorizing its texture. The fabric is worn thin from years of washing. It smells like detergent and him — clean, warm, faintly sweet. His hand moves slowly through her hair, steady and absentminded, the rhythm so consistent it feels like breathing.
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the street, a door shuts. Pipes shift quietly in the walls.
It feels ordinary in a way that makes her chest ache.
“You ever think about where you’d live?” she asks, voice muffled against him, the words almost getting lost in the fabric of his shirt.
He hums low in his throat. “Like… what, neighborhood-wise?”
She smiles faintly against him. “No. Like someday.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Not because he doesn’t have an answer — but because he does. Because it’s something he doesn’t usually say out loud unless he trusts the person listening not to laugh.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I told you before, didn’t I?”
She lifts her head slightly to look at him, chin resting on his chest. “Told me what?”
“Wanted to live on a farm.”
Her expression shifts — surprise first, then something softer, something that looks almost reverent. “You weren’t joking?”
“Nah.” His thumb keeps tracing slow lines against her shoulder, barely there. “Not like a huge one. Just… couple acres. Some land. Quiet. Chickens maybe. Dog runnin’ around.” He shrugs one shoulder like it’s nothing. “Grow my own shit. Wake up early. Fix stuff. Go to bed when it gets dark.”
There’s no irony in it. No smirk. Just honesty.
She studies his face like she’s seeing him from a new angle — like someone has gently turned him toward the light.
“A farm,” she repeats softly.
He gives her a half-smile, almost sheepish now that he’s said it again. “Sounds dumb, huh?”
“No,” she says immediately, pushing herself up on one elbow so she can look at him properly. “It sounds… peaceful.”
He watches her carefully, like he’s checking to see if she means it.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s kinda the point.”
Peaceful.
The word settles between them, warm and heavy.
She lets herself imagine it. Not the cliché version — not red barns and overalls and something out of a children’s book — but his version. Something quieter. Real. Worn wood. Mornings that start with light instead of noise.
“What would the house look like?” she asks, voice soft, like they’re already inside the dream.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I ain’t thought that far.”
“I have,” she says before she can stop herself.
His brows lift slightly, amused. “Oh yeah?”
She nods, cheeks warming but not enough to stop her. “White siding. Big wraparound porch. One of those old wooden ones that creak when you walk on them. Maybe a swing. Or two rocking chairs.”
She can see it clearly now — the porch boards slightly uneven, sun-warmed. The railing chipped in places. A line of mason jars catching light on the windowsill.
“There’d be wildflowers,” she continues, voice turning softer the more she speaks. “Not perfectly landscaped ones. Just… messy ones. Like they grew there on their own. And maybe a long gravel driveway. So when someone comes home, you can hear it.”
He goes still at that.
“So you know they’re safe,” she adds quietly.
That’s what it really is.
Not the farm.
Not the chickens.
Not the dog.
Safety.
Something in his jaw tightens — not from tension, but from feeling too much at once. The idea of coming home and being expected. Of someone listening for him.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “So you know.”
She settles back down against him, tucking herself into his side more securely. His arm adjusts automatically, pulling her closer, palm flattening warm against her back.
“I could write there,” she murmurs.
He presses his lips against her hair, lingering. “You could write anywhere.”
“No,” she says, more certain this time. “I could write there.”
He doesn’t argue.
In his mind, he can almost see it now — the porch stretching wide under a pale sky, fields breathing in the distance. Lexi sitting cross-legged with a notebook in her lap, hair pulled back messily, sunlight catching in the fine strands near her temple. No sirens in the distance. No late-night knocks on the door. No tension humming under the floorboards like a second pulse.
Just wind.
Just dirt under his nails from something honest.
“You’d get bored,” he says lightly, though his voice doesn’t carry much conviction.
“I wouldn’t,” she replies without hesitation.
He studies her again, this time longer. “You’d really wanna live like that?”
She tilts her face up to him. “With you?”
There’s no teasing in it. No performance. Just a simple, careful question.
He exhales slowly, something unspoken moving through him.
“Yeah,” he says. “With me.”
Her smile is small but steady — the kind that builds instead of flashes.
“Okay,” she whispers, like they’ve just agreed to something permanent.
He shifts slightly, pulling the blanket up higher around her shoulders. The fabric is warm from both of them. His hand slides back into her hair, fingers spreading against her scalp, grounding.
“Farm ain’t gonna have cable,” he mutters after a second.
She laughs softly, the sound barely louder than the television. “That’s okay.”
“Gonna make you collect eggs in the mornin’.”
“Okay.”
“Probably gonna smell like dirt half the time.”
“I like dirt.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, chest rumbling under her ear. She presses closer to feel it.
“Gonna be bugs,” he adds.
“I’ll survive.”
“Gonna be cold in the winter.”
“You’ll fix it.”
He pauses at that.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I will.”
They fall into silence again, but it isn’t empty. It’s full — of images, of possibility, of a life that feels startlingly reachable when she’s wrapped around him like this.
The narrator on the TV mentions migration again. Creatures that travel thousands of miles just to return to the same patch of land, year after year.
Fez rests his chin lightly on top of her head.
“Love you,” he murmurs, not dramatic, not searching for a response. Just stating something steady and true.
She lifts her hand from his chest, sliding it up to cup his jaw gently. “I love you too.”
He closes his eyes at the feel of it.
They don’t say anything else after that. They don’t need to.
The farm isn’t real yet. The porch doesn’t exist. The gravel driveway hasn’t been laid. But something has — something quieter and stronger.
The first brick.
And for once, the future doesn’t feel like something they have to outrun.