When I opened my eyes again, the living room was washed in the pale light of early morning. The shadows had thinned, the air quiet in that way it only was before anyone else stirred.
I was warm.
It took me a moment to realize why.
Tristan's arm was draped loosely around my waist, his other hand resting near mine on the couch cushion. His breathing was slow, even, the kind that only came after a long night of holding someone else's fear.
I didn't move. I didn't want to break the spell.
Some part of me—the part that had been braced for impact for so long—kept waiting for the familiar weight to return. But it didn't. Not here. Not with him.
Outside, a bird trilled somewhere in the trees. Upstairs, the house was still. My parents hadn't started their morning routine yet. Kari was probably still curled up under her blankets.
I felt the warmth of his arm tighten around me as I shifted slightly, careful not to wake him.
But then the creeping reality hit—my parents would be up soon. Kari, too. They'd see me here—like this. I swallowed hard, heart thudding.
"Tristan," I whispered.
His eyes cracked open, soft and sleepy.
"Morning," he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep.
"They're going to be up soon," I said, fidgeting with the blanket.
He sat up slightly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. He nodded, understanding, and then hesitated, his gaze holding mine. I felt my pulse jump as the quiet of the living room seemed to wrap around us, the silence punctuated by the distant tick of a wall clock. For a moment, everything else fell away, leaving only the tentative space between us.
I leaned forward, and our lips met.
It wasn't perfect. It was soft, tentative, a little clumsy. My fingers fumbled with the blanket; he smiled slightly, as if he didn't mind at all. The warmth of his lips on mine made my stomach twist, both thrilling and unnerving. Each tiny motion, like his hand brushing my hair back, seemed intensified, as if the world had narrowed to the space between us.
I pulled back slightly, only to press forward again. Each time we paused, I caught my breath, tasting the faint scent of his hoodie, the faint tang of coffee lingering in the air, and the low hum of the room that seemed to exist just for us. My fingers trembled as they grazed his collar, and I felt him shift closer, steadying me without saying a word.
When we finally paused, foreheads pressed together, his eyes were soft and deep, impossibly warm. Something unspoken passed between us—a quiet agreement that neither of us needed words to define this. I wanted to memorize every detail: the gentle curve of his mouth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the light caught the edges of his lashes.
A small, shaky laugh escaped me, and he smiled, a little crooked, a little teasing.
"You nervous?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver through me.
"Maybe a little," I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm.
"Good," he said, playful but kind. "Means it matters."
I blinked, surprised by how true that was. Every touch, every careful move felt like a promise: he was here, he wasn't going anywhere, and I didn't need to be afraid. I laughed softly, the warmth of the moment wrapping around me.
I leaned in once more, letting the kiss deepen, slow and exploratory. Fingers intertwined with the blanket, then tangled in his sleeve. He pressed a hand to the small of my back, drawing me closer in a way that was steady, grounding, but still full of that subtle thrill that made my pulse spike.
When we finally pulled back, we didn't separate fully. Just inches apart, foreheads touching, breath mingling. He smiled down at me, the corner of his mouth quirking in that way that made my chest ache.
"That was… nice," he said, soft, almost shy.
I grinned, heart still hammering.
"Nice?" I teased, nudging him with my shoulder. "I think it was perfect… sort of."
He laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated against me. "Sort of perfect, huh? I'll take it."
And for a moment, nothing else existed—no past, no fear, no worries. Just him, just me, and the quiet, thrilling electricity of something new, something ours, lingering in the air between us.
He grinned, leaning down to press a quick, gentle peck on my forehead before finally pulling away to grab his keys.
"I should go," he said softly, and I felt the ache of wanting him to stay.
I followed him to the front door, the house still wrapped in early morning silence. He unlocked it and stepped halfway out into the cool air before turning back, a sly little smile tugging at his lips.
"What?" I asked, tilting my head.
"Nothing," he said, leaning on the door frame. "Just wondering if you give all your guests a goodbye like that."
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. "Only the ones who show up at four in the morning to rescue me."
He grinned, leaning in just enough to make me meet him halfway. This kiss was still soft, but there was a spark in it now—him lingering a heartbeat longer, me smiling against his lips before pulling away.
"Bye, Winter," he said, smiling in that way that made my chest ache. "I'll let you know when I'm home."
"Bye," I whispered.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood there for a moment, still feeling the ghost of his smile, the warmth of his arm, the flutter of that first kiss.
Then—the muffled sound of voices.
My stomach dropped—my parents.
I tightened the blanket around me and crept toward the stairs, staying close to the wall to avoid the spots I knew would creak. Halfway up, the low rumble of my dad's voice carried upward, followed by the soft clink of cabinet doors in the kitchen. Mom must be with him.
I froze, straining to listen. Footsteps moved across the floor directly beneath me.
If they looked up now, they'd see me.
My pulse hammered in my ears as I slipped the rest of the way up the stairs, each step feeling like it took a lifetime. A muffled laugh floated up from below, making me move faster.
At the top, I hurried down the hallway and into my room, closing the door with the faintest click.
Leaning back against it, I let out a slow, shaky breath. I touched my lips, still tingling from his kiss, my fingers brushing the ghost of his warmth. It felt like I was carrying a secret in my chest—dangerous and beautiful all at once.
Somehow, despite the early morning stillness, my world felt different. Like maybe I wasn't just surviving anymore.
Like something was beginning.
Sunday was like honey. Slow, sticky, a sweetness mixed with heaviness. The curtains in my room were half-drawn. Muted strips of light shifted with the clouds. Outside, it was quiet—just an occasional car or the distant bark of a dog. Inside, I was curled up on my bed. My hoodie had seen better days, surrounded by the chaos of homework. Half-finished mugs of coffee and snack wrappers questioned my definition of 'meals.'
My laptop screen glowed with the beginnings of an essay I'd been pretending to work on for the past hour. Every time I typed two sentences, I found myself reaching for my phone. It was a terrible habit—Tristan wasn't helping.
Me: You'd laugh if you saw how much coffee I've had today.
I typed, snapping a picture of the chaotic mug lineup on my nightstand.
He replied almost instantly.
Tristan: That's not coffee. That's a cry for help.
I smirked, thumbs moving before I could stop myself.
Says the guy who thinks "doing laundry" means moving it from the washer to the dryer and calling it a day.
There was a pause, then:
Tristan: Low blow. Also accurate.
It went on like that all afternoon, with little fragments of conversation that had nothing to do with anything important but still made the quiet feel less empty. He sent me a blurry picture of his cat sprawled across a pile of clean clothes and followed it up with a voice note. I could hear the faint sound of some old song playing in the background, but his soft sigh, almost imperceptible, hinted at something deeper beneath his playful words. My phone felt warm in my palm, a solid presence keeping me grounded amidst our digital chatter. I sent back a photo of my blanket-wrapped legs with the caption: No signs of cabin fever yet.
Hours passed before I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My stomach made a noise so loud I froze, then winced, half-expecting it to echo down the hallway. Apparently, it had.
A knock came at my door, light but deliberate.
"Winter?" my mom's voice called. A second later, the door cracked open, and she peeked inside, brows knitting when she saw me still in bed.
"You haven't come down all day," she said, stepping in fully. "You feeling okay?"
I sat up a little straighter, brushing hair out of my face. "Yeah. Just… catching up on homework."
Her gaze swept over the room—my open notebooks, the cluttered nightstand, the dim light that made the space feel like a cave.
"When's the last time you ate something that wasn't a granola bar?" she asked.
"Um… breakfast?"
"Winter." Her voice softened, but the worry stayed. "You need to come eat. You'll make yourself sick if you keep skipping meals."
"I will," I promised, giving her a tired smile. "Let me just finish this paragraph."
She hesitated like she was debating whether to press the issue.
Finally, she sighed, "Ten minutes. If you're not downstairs by then, I'm coming back with soup, and you're not going to like how motherly I get about it."
I laughed under my breath. "Noted."
Once she left, I let out a long exhale and glanced at my phone again. Another text from Tristan waited for me.
Tristan: Don't forget to eat. Unless you want me to show up with takeout, I can be annoyingly persistent.
I bit my lip, typing back:
Apparently, you and my mom are on the same "force feed Winter" mission.
He replied.
Smart woman, we should team up.
The thought of him here, even just standing in my doorway with that half-smile, made something in my chest go warm. I shook my head and finally pushed my laptop aside, slipping out from under the blanket.
The house was quiet as I padded toward the stairs, but the silence didn't feel lonely anymore. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew Tristan would text me again in a few minutes—probably something stupid, probably something that made me laugh when I didn't expect to.
I grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen and ended up back in my room, leaning against the wall by the bed. My mom's soup threat had faded into the background, replaced by the quiet comfort of my little corner. I propped my phone on the pillow, and almost immediately, a text from Tristan lit up the screen.
Mission accomplished?
I smiled, typing back slowly.
I survived the soup threat. Barely.
He responded with a laughing emoji.
Barely counts as a victory. Send proof.
I sent a picture of my half-eaten sandwich, crumbs scattered like tiny battle trophies across the blanket.
Almost instantly, a voice note buzzed in. His voice spilled out, warm and teasing: "That looks… sad. Like, do I need to stage an intervention? I've seen pigeons eat better meals."
I laughed out loud, shaking my head.
"Jerk," I muttered under my breath, already typing.
Me: Hey, that sandwich was a masterpiece until I devoured it. Don't disrespect my culinary art.
The typing dots blinked for a beat before his reply came.
Tristan: Masterpiece? Winter… that bread looks like it gave up on life halfway through.
I snorted and almost dropped my phone. Before I could fire back, another message buzzed in.
Tristan: You know, I'd rather just be there. Sitting with you. Eating anything, really. Doesn't matter what. Just with you.
My breath caught. He always did this—slip past my defenses with humor, then leave me wide open, heart pounding.
Me: Careful. You keep saying things like that, and I might start expecting more than jokes about my food.
The dots appeared again. Paused. Disappeared. Then, they finally lit back up.
Tristan: Good. Expect me. Expect all of me. I don't want to be the guy who's just a distraction for you. I want to be the one you reach for—even when you're eating a tragic sandwich.
I stared at the words until they blurred. No one had ever said something like that to me, not without conditions, not without strings.
Me: You don't know what you're asking for.
Another pause. This time, a voice message: "Yeah, I do. You. Just you. Even if it's messy. Especially if it's messy." His voice was low and full of certainty.
I pressed the phone to my chest, eyes stinging, the ache of missing him suddenly heavier. That sandwich might have been pitiful, but somehow Tristan had turned it into proof that he wanted me—really wanted me.
Before I realized it, the hours melted together. I was leaning back against the pillows, phone propped on my stomach, fingers occasionally typing messages, occasionally just tracing the edge of the blanket. Sometimes his texts were silly—a bad pun, a random picture, a meme—and sometimes they were soft, little reminders that he was thinking of me, that he was there.
At some point, my mom poked her head in again, this time fully smiling. "Still alive?" she asked, arms crossed.
I nodded, holding up my granola bar like a tiny trophy. "See? Winning at life."
She raised an eyebrow. "Winning or surviving? Big difference."
I smirked, then whispered under my breath so only Tristan could "hear," if he were listening through my words, "Surviving, but with excellent company."
I leaned back, letting out a long breath, my chest warm. The light from the screen was soft against my face, and the blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon. Outside, the world carried on as usual—cars hummed, birds called, the sun began to sink lower—but inside, it felt like the world had slowed down just for us.
And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
By the time the house had quieted—my mom, dad, and Kari long gone to bed—I found myself scrolling through my phone, thumb hovering over Tristan's name. With a deep breath, I tapped the call button, half-expecting him to be asleep.
"Hey," his voice said immediately, low and warm through the speaker.
"Hey," I whispered back, curling further into the blanket. My room was dim, the streetlight outside casting soft stripes across the floor.
"You still awake?" he asked. There was a teasing lilt in his voice, but underneath, I could hear the faintest hint of concern.
"Barely," I admitted, smiling at the sound of him. "Couldn't sleep."
"You know, I was thinking the same thing," he said. "Figured we could, I don't know… keep each other company for a little while."
I felt my chest warm at that. "I'd like that."
The call became a gentle rhythm: small talk, soft laughter, the kind of silly tangents that made my heart feel light despite everything else. He told me about his lazy Sunday—a coffee that was too bitter, a book he couldn't finish, a cat who refused to cooperate—and I found myself sharing little things too, my voice quiet, safe in the dimness of my room.
At some point, the conversation softened. The jokes faded into comfortable silence, broken only by his steady breathing on the line and the faint sound of my own heartbeat.
"I wish you were here," he murmured suddenly, almost shy.
"I wish I were," I whispered back. My fingers gripped the blanket tighter, imagining him sitting beside me, close but not intrusive.
After a pause, he spoke again, voice low and careful. "Hey… Want to meet at the college entrance?"
I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "Yeah. I'll probably be there around 9:45."
"I'll be waiting," he said, and I could hear the smile in his tone. "I guess it's officially the perfect excuse to walk in together."
I felt a flutter of excitement. "Yeah… I was dreading it, honestly. But now it feels… easier. You'll be there."
"Always," he said softly. "We can suffer through Greek sculpture together."
I felt a small thrill in my chest, the kind that made my stomach flip.
"Promise me you won't leave?" I teased, trying to sound casual.
"I promise," he said, and the warmth in his voice made my heart slow and speed all at once. "I'll be there. You won't even get a chance to bail."
We stayed like that for a while longer, trading quiet confessions, teasing each other over little things—how I still couldn't get my coffee right, how he swore he'd never finish that book. And in between the laughter, the call became our tether, a tiny bubble of safety and comfort against the quiet of the night.
Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy, and I yawned.
"I should try to sleep," I murmured.
"I'll be here when you wake up," he said softly.
"Promise?" I whispered, already half-drifting.
"Promise," he replied.
The line went silent except for the faint click of the phone. As sleep began to take over, I felt the cool glow of the streetlight filtering gently through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls. The warmth of Tristan's voice lingered in my ears, wrapping around me like a tender embrace, a quiet reminder that even in the darkness, I was not alone. In that comforting stillness, I knew that tomorrow, we'd see each other again.