It was just past eight when the knock came. Theo had been pacing long enough to wear a faint path into the rug. He had straightened the sofa cushions twice, aligned the coasters until they could have passed a Ministry audit, and rearranged the stack of books on the table three separate times.
He told himself it was about maintaining order, because order had always been his way of keeping the world quiet.
Secretly, he knew it was something else—a bright, restless pressure building beneath his ribs, like a lamp had been lit inside him and refused to dim.
When he opened the door, every line of the carefully rehearsed welcome vanished.
Luna stood in the corridor, surrounded by what looked like the aftermath of a gentle rebellion. Three suitcases that barely obeyed gravity, two canvas bags stuffed full of unknowns, and a charmed trunk floating patiently behind her.
A terracotta pot drifted at her shoulder, its leaves glossy and alert. One suitcase had given up entirely, spilling scarves down its side in bright ribbons. Lemons peeked through a mesh bag like small, golden suns. A collection of glass jars clinked softly together, the kind of polite sound made by travelers who fully intended to stay.
"You said one suitcase," he managed.
"I brought one," she said, as bright as morning. "And a few friends for company."
"You are not colonising a continent," he said, stepping aside as the trunk glided past his hip.
"I am colonising your silence," she replied, and the words landed somewhere deep in his chest, warm and immovable.
The plant bumped the doorframe on its way in, then squeezed through as if it had its own opinions about entryways. The suitcases settled with dignified little thumps. A lemon escaped its bag, rolled across the floor, and came to rest right in the center of the rug. Luna looked delighted, as though the flat itself had made a decision.
Theo closed the door and turned to face what could only be described as an invasion of life.
His quiet fortress had been breached by color and scent, by the strange order of someone who lived through touch instead of lists.
Two instincts rose in him at once. The first was old and disciplined—catalogue, arrange, regain control. The second was new, disobedient, and unbearably soft to leave it. Let the room learn her name.
He crossed his arms to keep from fixing anything. "This is excessive."
"It's appropriate," she said, already kneeling beside one of the cases. She unzipped it, and scarves spilled out in a rush of color—deep blue, soft rose, a lemon-bright yellow, a green that clearly wanted to live near the window.
She shook each one loose and draped them over the sofa with a kind of quiet reverence, as though she were tucking the furniture in for a nap.
"The sofa was neat," he said, because it was easier to complain than to admit he liked watching her do it.
"It's still neat," she replied, smoothing one edge. "Now it's comfortable."
He crouched beside her despite himself. His fingers brushed the corner of a charcoal scarf that matched the jacket he had put on that morning. The fabric was fine, faintly rough, unpretentious, very Luna. He folded it once, then again, and when he placed it beside the others, the pile no longer looked like clutter but like intention. He cleared his throat to disguise the sound of his surrender.
The next suitcase was heavier. When it opened, the faint scent of paper and travel filled the air. Books—dozens of them—spilled into view. Some were worn, others crisp, all carrying that quiet gravity of things meant to be read rather than owned. A pressed violet fluttered from between two pages and landed at her knee. Luna bent and lifted it carefully, as if rescuing something still alive, then tucked it back between its pages.
"There are shelves," he said, already hearing the futility in his voice.
"Shelves need to be courted," she replied, stacking the books into small, proud towers. One near the chair. One on the table. One on the windowsill, where the plant leaned closer as if ready to read along.
He opened his mouth to object and found himself instead moving two of his own books aside. He made room for hers without thinking. The gesture felt like turning a key in a lock that had been waiting years to open. He placed her atlas on top and left it there.
The act was small, but the air changed when he did it. It smelled faintly of ink and lemon and something new that had no word yet.
The third suitcase revealed rows of glass jars, each one labeled in Luna's looping handwriting. Rosemary. Lemon balm. Fennel. A jar of dried rosehips. A small tin of salt that smelled faintly of citrus. Theo picked one up and frowned. The label read thyme.
"Kitchens are for cooking," she said, catching his expression. "Not for experiments."
"Kitchens are for both," he said, setting the jar down carefully, "if the cook knows what he's doing."
"You'll be careful," she replied, serene as ever. "And I'll be brave."
"An unsettling arrangement," he muttered.
"Balanced," she said with a small smile that made it sound like a fact rather than a theory.
From the canvas bags came more fragments of her life. A framed photograph of her father, smiling beneath a wind-stirred sky. Three smooth stones, light and dark, shaped soft by rivers. A string of tiny bells that chimed when she lifted them. A bundle of white candles tied with green thread. Two journals with corners worn to softness. A tin of tea labeled in someone else's hand. A small stack of letters bound with a ribbon faded nearly to gray.
She set the photograph on the mantel beside his perfectly aligned candles. The frame leaned left. She left it that way. He reached out to straighten it, stopped, and let it be.
"Crooked," he said softly.
"Lived in," she answered. "My father always tilted his head when he listened. It feels right."
He swallowed and looked away before she could read what that did to him. The peppermint plant had already claimed the window. He tested the soil with one careful finger—it was perfectly damp. "What is it?"
"Peppermint," she said. "It likes to talk. You'll hear it at night and think it's the wind trying to speak."
"I already think that," he said. "It insults my shutters."
Her laughter rose, light and full. It filled the room without crowding it. He had never known laughter could make a place feel larger.
They carried the jars into the kitchen together. Luna began lining them across the counter, ignoring any logic of size or order. The jars gleamed in the lamplight like small, watchful eyes. Theo hovered behind her, uncertain whether to help or to supervise.
"Do you want a shelf?" he asked.
"They want to see the room," she said, arranging lemon balm beside peppercorns and a jar of preserved lemon peels that shone like trapped sunlight. "They'll sit in friendly clumps."
He counted quietly to seven before answering. "Friendly clumps don't fit into my inventory."
"You will not inventory me," she said, calm but firm. "You will live with me."
He bowed his head, caught by the truth of it, startled by how much he liked being caught. "Yes," he said.
She picked up a lemon and rolled it beneath her palm, feeling its weight as if testing its pulse. Then she conjured a bowl from her case, glazed clay the color of rainwater, and set it on the table. She placed the lemon in the center with quiet care, then added two more, then three, then one with a small scar shaped like a smile.
"Symbolic," he said, standing at her shoulder.
"Practical," she replied. "They go into everything."
He resisted the urge to argue. Instead, he picked up the scarred lemon and turned it in his hand. The skin was rough in one spot, the imperfection faintly raised. He thought of his own rough edges and set it back gently, as though placing something sacred where it belonged.
They worked in near silence after that. She unpacked, he hovered, offered comments, surrendered. She hung the string of bells on the hall table, where they caught the light and made a sound like breathing when brushed. He tested one with a fingertip and listened to the soft chime that answered. Without thinking, he set a small dish beside them—for keys that would no longer be only his.
She saw the gesture and turned away, hiding her smile in her shoulder. The bells trembled once and went still.
At the wardrobe she opened the door and gave a small sound of approval. He had cleared the space as promised. Her shirts went in, bright splashes of color among his careful rows of white and grey. She hung a cardigan near the front, the one she wore on stormy days, and he had to look away because something in his chest softened so deeply it almost hurt.
"Do you want this side?" he asked, his voice measured.
"I want the side that lets me bump into you," she said, and chose accordingly.
He sat on the edge of the bed while she folded socks into a drawer. A small pouch of lavender disappeared among them, its scent lifting softly through the air like a spell he had not expected to need.
"You put charms on drawers," he said.
"I put kindness," she answered. "Spells are only another kind of attention."
He watched her cross to the bathroom and set a jar of hair ties on the sink. He tried not to count them. He failed. Then he surprised himself by leaving them exactly where she had placed them.
Back in the living room, the photograph of her father rested on the mantel, steady and patient. Theo moved a candle slightly to make space. She slid one of her river stones under the frame to keep it balanced. In the reflection of the glass, he caught sight of himself—a man trying not to smile and failing.
Luna turned and caught him watching. Her eyes softened, that same gentle light gathering in them as always when she looked at him.
"You're glowing," she said quietly.
"I'm going to deny it," he said.
"You'll be wrong," she replied, a touch of amusement in her voice. "But it's good to see."
He turned away to gather the empty bags. A scarf slipped from one and wrapped around his wrist like something that had chosen him. He paused, raised the fabric to his lips, and kissed it once, quick and awkward. When he looked up, she had seen, and she didn't tease. It felt like a secret placed exactly where it belonged.
She carried the peppermint to the kitchen window and turned the pot halfway toward the light. "It wanted a different view," she said.
"It told you?" he asked.
"It showed me," she said. "Plants speak through shadows."
"I speak through labels," he said, then added, quieter, "You can peel them off."
"Not all of them," she said, crossing to him. "Some are handsome. The others will fall away when they're ready."
He let her touch him. Her fingers smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. He could have said a dozen things and said none. The silence stretched, thin and warm, something he didn't want to break.
They ended up at the table without deciding to. Side by side, their knees brushed. They looked at the lemons in their bowl as though they were witnesses to something new and fragile. He reached for her hand. She gave it easily, her fingers fitting against his like two halves that had always been meant to meet.
"You know I'll still complain," he said.
"I know," she said. "And I'll still put scarves on chairs."
"You'll lose some," he warned.
"I'll win others," she said. "We'll call it even and keep the house."
He laughed—quiet, unguarded, the kind of sound that felt like the room had been waiting to hear it. He stood, pulled a chair out with exaggerated politeness, and gestured for her to sit. She obeyed, smiling. He joined her. The evening settled into its shape.
There was still the trunk. When he finally opened it, half expecting another kitchen or an aviary, he found blankets instead. Three thick ones and one thin, soft as breath. He lifted the lightest and it spilled over his arms like a promise. He carried it to the sofa and laid it there. The scarves welcomed it, their colors blending in quiet harmony.
"Appropriate," he said.
"Necessary," she replied.
He turned back to the mantel, straightened one candle, looked at the photograph, and left it leaning. His hands twitched with the old habit to correct, but something gentler moved beneath it, a new instinct learning how to be still.
Luna stepped beside him and slipped her arm around his waist. He tensed for a heartbeat before softening, his body remembering how to exist without defense. She rested her head against his shoulder and looked toward the photograph of her father on the mantel.
"He would have liked you," she said softly.
"I would have been terrified," he admitted.
"You already are," she replied, smiling a little. "You're doing fine."
He turned and pressed a quiet kiss to her hair. At the window, the peppermint brushed the glass, leaving a faint print like a note written in green.
"Welcome home," he said, surprised by how steady the words sounded.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll try not to ruin your inventory."
"Ruin it," he said. "I'll keep the parts that matter."
"What matters?" she asked, not teasing, only curious.
"You," he said, and did not look away.
They stayed like that until the light shifted across the windowsill. Then he moved, needing the motion to keep from saying more. He stacked the empty cases neatly by the door. She gathered a handful of scarves and braided three together, looping the braid over the back of a chair. He pretended not to notice that the colors matched his tie. She pretended not to notice that he had noticed.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"Starving," he said, though he wasn't sure if he meant food or the quiet ache of wanting her in every corner of the room. Both felt true.
They drifted toward the kitchen, shoulders brushing as they walked. The peppermint leaned toward them. The lemons caught the last of the light. The jars gleamed in their new, uneven arrangement. The room exhaled softly. The fortress was gone. What remained felt like shelter.
Theo, who had once believed that order was the only honest language, found himself fluent in the quiet grammar of her presence. The flat breathed out, and the air finally felt right.
"Stay," he said as they reached the kitchen doorway, part habit, part plea.
"I brought too many suitcases to leave," she said, smiling against him.
"Good," he said.
He reached for a spoon. When he pulled open the drawer, the tiny bells chimed—a bright, delicate sound. Luna's doing. He laughed, left them there, and the sound lingered in the air, warm and approving, as though even the metal had learned to enjoy company.
The night opened around them. The flat settled. And in that stillness, their life began to take shape.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
The kitchen felt different before they even lit the stove. It wasn't larger or smaller, just altered, as if it had shifted its weight to make room. His knives gleamed in their rack, the counters lined in clean precision, but her jars had already claimed a stretch of counter, and the peppermint pot leaned forward as though it had something to say. A scarf she had forgotten to remove hung from the back of a chair, fluttering slightly like a flag declaring new territory.
Theo had written a list for dinner, clear and methodical: onions, carrots, chicken, broth, wine, thyme. Ordinary thyme. Not the experimental kind that lived under lock and ward. Each ingredient sat in a neat line, ready for use.
Luna regarded it all with regal amusement. "Lovely," she said. "But it looks a little stiff."
"It looks prepared," he said.
"Prepared can still be stiff." She smiled at him, dreamy, stubborn. "Food should look like it wants to be eaten."
"It will, when it's cooked," he said, reaching for the onions with the patience of a man bracing for chaos.
She hummed softly as she tied one of her scarves into her hair. The knot sat crooked, and the fabric trailed down her neck in uneven ribbons. He tried not to look at them. He failed immediately.
The oil hissed in the pan, and she leaned beside it, hovering one hand over the rising heat as if greeting an old friend. With the other, she reached—too casually, too boldly—for the wrong jar.
Theo froze mid-slice. "Do not."
"Do not what?" she asked, unscrewing the lid.
"That jar," he said tightly. "That is not for dinner."
"It's thyme," she said mildly, as though explaining the obvious.
"It is cultivated for infusion," he snapped, abandoning the knife to snatch it back. "I've been perfecting that tincture for three weeks. You cannot just—"
But she had already tipped two sprigs into the oil. The scent bloomed at once, bright and sharp, all green and smoke and something that felt alive. The pan answered with a louder hiss.
Theo gripped the counter, jaw tight. "Unbelievable."
"Memorable," she said, serene as ever, setting the lid down.
"You've sabotaged the meal."
"I've improved it."
"This isn't cooking," he said. "This is vandalism."
"This is seasoning," she replied, reaching for the spoon.
He caught her wrist before she could touch it, glaring down at her. "If you ruin this dinner—"
She leaned forward and kissed him.
His body stilled, his grip loosened, his thoughts emptied out in a single startled breath. When she drew back, his mouth stayed half-open, as if the air had forgotten how to leave.
"Better," she said, and stirred the pan.
Theo pressed a hand to his mouth, both to hide his blush and to hold back the smile that threatened. "You can't use kisses as weapons."
"I can," she said, with perfect calm. "And I will."
He groaned, turned back to his cutting board, and began chopping carrots with the intensity of a man at war with his own contentment.
Theo clung to order. He lined up the chopped onions, swept the carrots into tidy piles, and measured the broth into a glass so he could see it settle at the exact mark. He had a rhythm: chop, measure, stir, repeat. His knife strokes were clean, his breathing steady.
Luna disrupted every beat.
She perched on the counter, legs swinging, unwrapping cloves of garlic like they were secrets she meant to share. "More garlic," she said.
"We do not need more garlic," Theo replied, reaching for the ladle.
She dropped two extra cloves into the oil without hesitation. "The house likes it."
"The house is not eating dinner," he said, stabbing at the pan.
"The house eats everything," she said, tilting her head as if listening. "Walls get hungry too."
He muttered something about structural collapse and went back to the carrots.
When she slid off the counter, her hip brushed his thigh. He froze. She hummed, unconcerned, and bent to retrieve a spoon. She dipped it into the sauce and brought it to her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut as she tasted, a small sound of approval escaping her.
"You didn't even blow on it," he said, appalled. "You could have burned your mouth."
"Worth it," she said, licking the spoon clean.
"You can't lick cooking spoons," he said, scandalised.
"Of course I can," she said, and held it out to him.
He tried to glare but failed. The spoon hovered too close to ignore, so he leaned forward and tasted. Garlic, oil, the forbidden thyme he had sworn would not work, and the faint brightness of lemon bloomed on his tongue. He swallowed slowly, unwilling to admit how good it was.
"Well?" she asked.
"It's… tolerable," he muttered.
She smiled. "You're glowing again."
"I am not glowing," he said sharply, shoving carrots into the pan.
"You are," she said, slipping past him to grab the salt. She tossed a pinch into the air before adding it to the food. "For luck."
Theo flinched. "You are salting my ceiling."
"I am salting your luck," she said.
He pressed both hands to his temples and groaned. "This is chaos."
"This is cooking," she corrected.
They moved around each other like mismatched dancers. She slipped behind him to reach the ladle. He sidestepped, still managed to collide with her elbow. She hummed while zesting a lemon; he swatted curls of peel off the counter. At one point she bent to fetch a pot from a lower shelf, and her scarf brushed his hand. He nearly dropped the knife.
"Dangerous," he muttered.
"What is?" she asked, standing upright.
"You," he said before he could stop himself.
Her smile deepened, the kind that had been waiting in her for weeks.
By the time they lifted the pan from the stove, the kitchen was alive with scent. Onions soft and golden. Garlic rich and sweet. Thyme sharp as a memory. Lemon bright as laughter. Theo carried the pan like an offering, his hands steady, his chest a storm. Luna followed, balancing two plates with the ease of someone born for it, humming a tune that didn't need a name.
He served the food with careful precision, pretending presentation would protect him. She found mismatched wine glasses at the back of his cupboard and filled them without apology. The taller went to him. She kept the smaller one.
Theo sat. The chair gave a small sigh beneath his weight. The table looked as it always had, but the room no longer felt the same. Scarves softened the edges of furniture. Jars waited in friendly clumps along the counter. The peppermint leaned toward the window as though eavesdropping. Across from him, Luna smiled at her plate as if food were a love letter that had found its way home.
They ate in a quiet that felt full.
Theo cut a piece of chicken, inspected it, and lifted it to his mouth with suspicion. He chewed, ready to complain, but the flavor caught him off guard—warm, layered, alive. He froze halfway through his next bite, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a compliment.
"Well?" she asked, sipping her wine.
"It is… acceptable," he said.
"High praise," she said, and smiled into her glass.
He scowled and ate faster, which did nothing to hide the truth. By the time his plate was empty, her triumph hummed in the air between them. She rose for seconds, ignoring his muttered comments about gluttony, and returned with a full plate, sliding half in front of him. He didn't protest. He ate.
The wine softened everything—the corners of the room, the lines around his mouth, the tightness behind his ribs. His shoulders loosened. The lamplight spread over the table, catching on the lemons in their bowl. The air smelled like garlic and thyme and her.
Then he felt it: the light brush of her toes against his ankle beneath the table.
He stiffened, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Luna chewed calmly, her expression unreadable.
"What are you doing?" he asked, too sharply.
"Making the flat ours," she said, and nudged him again.
He hesitated. He wanted to pull away, to remind her of boundaries, to reclaim some semblance of order. Instead, his foot shifted forward, tentative. Their toes met beneath the table, the smallest collision, warm and deliberate.
He exhaled, and the air between them changed again.
The touch was nothing, a brush of skin against skin beneath the table, yet his whole body reacted as if she had spoken a spell through the floorboards. Heat climbed his throat. His stomach tightened, not from food but from something far more dangerous.
She lifted her glass and sipped her wine, calm as if nothing had shifted, while he sat there, undone by the gentle weight of her foot against his.
"This is different," he said softly, half to himself.
She set her glass down, eyes steady on his. "It is home."
He opened his mouth, found no words, closed it again, then finally stopped pretending. He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. She turned her palm up, fingers threading through his like it was the simplest thing in the world.
The table hadn't moved, yet it no longer felt like his. It belonged to them now.
When the plates were empty and the wine low in their mismatched glasses, Theo thought they might stay there forever, staring at the candles and the lemons, pretending the night had no edge. But Luna rose, humming softly, and carried her plate to the sink.
"You don't have to," he said.
"I want to," she replied, and turned on the tap. Steam rose into the air, curling toward the ceiling.
He followed her with his plate, unable to sit still while she stood there alone. He took up the towel, folded it neatly, and stood beside her, ready to dry whatever she handed him.
She washed slowly, letting the water slide over her hands, her movements unhurried, her hum weaving through the sound of running water. It was a tune without corners, warm and easy, filling the kitchen with something that wasn't quite music but might as well have been.
Theo dried each dish carefully, building a small, shining tower beside him. He didn't know why it mattered so much that they gleamed, only that it did.
When she reached for a pot, he caught it first, their arms brushing. The brief contact startled him, though she didn't seem to notice. She kept humming. He dried the pot slowly, more gently than necessary, as if it were something precious instead of a thing built for heat.
The peppermint plant on the sill leaned toward the steam. The jars reflected the light in small, golden halos. A curl of Luna's hair had escaped her hair tie and trailed across her cheek.
"Your rhythm is off," he murmured, watching her move the sponge in slow circles.
"It's a song, not a march," she said.
He almost argued. Instead, he smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was real.
They worked together like a pair of hands learning to belong to the same body. She passed him each clean dish. He set it down carefully, their fingers brushing often enough that it began to feel like a kind of conversation. Once she flicked a few drops of water at him, and he gave her a look so stern it should have frozen her in place. She only laughed. The sound filled the room better than order ever could.
When the last fork had been dried, Theo folded the towel with slow precision. Luna set the sponge aside and wiped her wet hands on her scarf, careless and sure. He almost scolded her, but the words didn't come. It looked right on her—domestic, imperfect, alive.
The air smelled of lemon and soap, layered over garlic and thyme. The kitchen had changed again, quietly, finally lived in.
Luna leaned against the counter, eyes soft, hair damp at the edges. "Better," she said.
Theo looked around at the chaos that had become comfort and felt something steady take root in his chest. "Yes," he said quietly. "Better."
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
The evening softened once the dishes were stacked to dry. The lamps dimmed to a quiet glow. The peppermint stretched its shadow along the windowsill and went still. Luna crossed the living room with one of his shirts folded over her arm, the white fabric already taking on her shape just by being near her. She paused at the bedroom door for a moment, as if listening for something unseen, then disappeared into the bathroom with the calm certainty of someone who belonged there.
Theo stayed where she had left him, blinking at the space she had passed through. The sight of that shirt had felt like a choice before she even put it on. He smoothed the cover of a book he had no intention of reading, then aligned the coasters in a neat row no one else would notice. From the bathroom came the sound of water running, a glass being set down, a lid clicking shut. He had lived with these same sounds for years, but they had never sounded like this.
He told his hands to stay still. They didn't listen.
The bathroom door opened. She stepped out barefoot, her wrists still damp. His shirt hung to mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled twice and still too long. A strand of hair clung to her cheek. She lifted her toothbrush like an award and said, mild and amused, "You keep the good toothpaste at the back."
"That's where sensible people keep it," he said, almost breathless.
Her smile softened, small and knowing, like she had just decoded something important. She brushed past him, leaving behind a trail of mint and soap. He didn't move until the air cooled again.
He walked to the bathroom slowly, as if the hallway had grown longer since dinner. On the sink, her jar of hair ties sat comfortably beside his comb. Her toothbrush leaned in the glass next to his, still glistening with a drop of water. His razor had shifted half an inch from where he'd left it. The towel he'd folded with geometric precision now bore the faint imprint of her hands.
He stood there for a long moment, touching nothing. Then he reached toward the razor to straighten it, hesitated, and left it askew.
He turned on the tap and brushed his teeth with unnecessary determination. His reflection was honest: more color in his face, hair refusing to behave, eyes brighter than they had been in weeks. He rinsed, dried his mouth gently, then folded the hand towel back into a square, leaving her faint print untouched.
The mirror still showed a man who liked order, but there was someone else there now too—someone who had opened the door and allowed change to sit beside him. He clicked off the light and stepped into the hallway. The quiet that met him felt alive, like a held breath.
The bedroom lamp was low. Luna lay on her side, a book open in her hand. His shirt had slipped down one shoulder, the fabric tracing the line of her skin. Her hair had come loose, falling in uneven waves. The blanket covered her lower legs, which only made the bare skin above her knees more distracting.
He stopped in the doorway, his hand braced on the frame. She looked up and smiled without closing the book. "Come to bed," she said, her voice steady and warm, as though there was no better plan.
He obeyed. Jacket draped over the chair. Socks folded on top of his shoes. Belt set neatly on the dresser, every motion slow, careful, reverent. He turned his wand so it faced its usual direction and caught her watching him. He felt foolish, but her smile made the feeling gentler.
He lifted the blanket and slid in beside her, keeping an inch of distance between them as if it were a pact. The mattress dipped with a soft sigh. He lay on his back, hands flat against the sheet, eyes tracing the ceiling while he listened to her breathing. The sound of a page turning filled the quiet and somehow reached him like touch.
"Goodnight," she said softly, eyes still on the book.
"Goodnight," he replied, and meant it, though he couldn't close his eyes.
The room held the kind of silence that comes after a train enters a tunnel. Outside, the city murmured faintly. Inside, every ordinary sound felt large. The brush of sheets when she moved. The quiet rhythm of her breath. The slow tick of the clock beside them. And beneath it all, the steady pulse of something new beginning to take root.
She reached for the lamp and turned it off. Darkness filled the room but stopped partway, as if it knew to keep its distance. His eyes adjusted slowly, learning new outlines. The curve of her shoulder. The gentle rise of her hip beneath the blanket. The faint shimmer of her hair spilling across the pillow.
Her bare knee brushed his leg, light as a breath. His body reacted instantly, every nerve awake. Neither of them moved for a few heartbeats. Then she shifted, just slightly, and the loss of contact felt like another kind of touch.
"You're not sleeping," she said softly.
"I'm failing at it convincingly," he answered.
"What do you need?" she asked.
He thought of every clever reply that might deflect the truth, then let them go. "Time," he said finally. "And you, somewhere safely away from my terrible self-control."
A small sound came from her side of the bed, something between a laugh and a promise not to laugh. "I can give you both," she said.
She stayed where she was. That stillness felt like mercy.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
They woke to a quiet the city could not reach. Light floated along the curtains. Theo lay still and felt the shape of her against him, the warm weight of a thigh over his, the soft drag of her breath against his collarbone. He moved his hand along her spine under cotton, slow enough to be a question. She answered by tilting closer, eyes still closed, mouth curving.
"Morning," she whispered, voice husky.
"Morning," he said, already ruined by the sound.
He kissed her eyelids, then the corner of her mouth, then the mouth itself. The kiss began careful and grew certain. His palm settled at her hip like a tether. Her hand climbed the line of his jaw and came to rest at his cheek, thumb stroking once. Everything in him loosened and sharpened at the same time. He pulled back an inch, breathing her in.
"Tell me," he murmured. "What do you need."
"You," she said. "Now. As you are."
He swallowed, nodded once, and went slow on purpose, because slow made the day last and gave their hunger a place to burn clean.
He traced her throat with his mouth, learning where her breath caught and where it steadied. She made small sounds that landed against his lips like answers. When he reached the soft place below her ear and tasted skin, she gripped his shoulder and let out a quiet gasp that turned his bones to flame.
"Here," he asked against her pulse, seeking permission without ceremony.
"Here," she said, steady and sure.
The shirt she had stolen for sleep slid off her shoulder. He kissed the bare skin and felt her shiver. He gathered the edge of cotton in his fist and peeled it away inch by inch, following with his mouth, letting the cool air touch what his hands had warmed. When he lifted his head, her eyes were open and focused on him like he was the only thing that could bring the morning into view.
"Look at me," he said.
"I am," she answered.
The simple truth of it snapped something inside him in the right way. He kissed her again, deeper, until the room tilted and righted itself under the rhythm of their breathing.
His hands moved over her skin like he was mapping her body, learning every curve and angle.
He traced the lines of her ribs, the swell of her hips, the dip of her waist. He followed the path of his hands with his mouth, kissing and licking and nipping until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in his hair.
"Theo," she gasped, her back arching as he sucked a mark into the soft skin of her breast. "Please."
"Please what?" he asked, his voice rough with want.
"Touch me," she said, her voice a plea. "I need you to touch me."
His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her knickers. She lifted her hips, letting him slide them down her legs and off, leaving her bare to his gaze.
He took a moment to look at her, spread out before him like an offering. Her skin was flushed, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with desire. He had never seen anything more beautiful.
He settled between her thighs, his hands sliding up the soft skin of her inner thighs. She shivered, her legs falling open, giving him room.
He settled between her thighs, his hands sliding up the soft skin of her inner thighs. She shivered, her legs falling open, giving him room.
"You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers slipping through her folds, feeling the evidence of her desire. "So ready for me."
She whimpered, her hips rocking, seeking more of his touch. "Please,"
He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh. "I know what you need."
He kissed her, right at the center of her cunt, his tongue slipping out to taste her. She cried out, her hands going to his hair, holding him against her.
He licked her slowly, savoring her taste, the feel of her against his tongue. He circled her clit, teasing her, making her writhe and moan. He slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them to rub against that spot inside her that made her see stars.
She was babbling now, a steady stream of pleas and curses, her hips rocking against his face. He could feel her getting closer, her body winding tighter and tighter, her walls fluttering around his fingers.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves. That was all it took to send her over the edge.
She came with a scream, her body convulsing, her thighs clamping around his head. He rode out her orgasm, his tongue gentling, his fingers stroking her through the aftershocks.
When she finally stilled, he pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. She laid there, boneless and sated, her chest heaving.
"Theo," she said, her voice rough with satisfaction. "That was..."
"Perfection," he finished for her, crawling up her body to settle beside her. He gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You're perfection."
She hummed, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. "I could say the same about you."
They lay like that for a moment, basking in the afterglow, their heartbeats slowing. But soon, the need began to build again, their bodies craving more.
Luna shifted, her leg sliding over his hip, her wetness pressing against his thigh. "Theo," she said, her voice taking on a needy edge. "I want you inside me."
He groaned, his cock twitching against her stomach. "Anything, love."
He rolled, taking her with him, pressing her into the mattress with his weight. He caught her wrists and pinned them above her head.
She nodded once, calm, and that was all the permission he needed.
He kissed her like a vow. Her back arched into him. He ground against her and felt her answer, hot and unashamed. His control frayed. He lowered his mouth to her throat and bit, gentle then harder, kissing the mark after as if devout. She made a sound that took the floor out from under him.
"Mine," he said against her skin. It came out raw.
"Yours," she gasped, head tipped back, offering him more.
"Say it again," he begged, the word already a habit he did not want to break.
"Yours," she whispered. "Always yours."
He swore under his breath and pressed closer, the sheet twisting around their legs, the world shrinking to the heat where they met.
He hummed, his skin prickling under her touch. "I want you," he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to cup her ass.
She whimpered, her body arching into his touch. "Then take me," she whispered, her eyes dark with desire.
He pushed in slowly, his eyes locked on hers. She was tight, so tight, her walls gripping him like a vice. He had to stop halfway, his head dropping to her shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants.
"Bloody hell, love," he groaned, his hips rocking, pushing himself deeper. "You feel so fucking good."
She whimpered, her legs wrapping around his hips, her heels digging into his ass. "More, Theo. I need more."
He obliged, pulling out slowly before pushing back in, setting a steady pace. He rolled his hips, hitting that spot inside her that made her moan and writhe beneath him.
Their bodies moved together, slick with sweat, the sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the room. Luna's nails raked down his back, leaving red lines in their wake.
"Harder," she begged, her hips rocking up to meet his thrusts.
He obliged, his thrusts becoming sharper, deeper, his hips slamming into hers. He could feel his orgasm building, his balls drawing up tight.
"Come for me, baby," he said, his hand sliding between their bodies to rub her clit. "Come all over my cock."
She screamed, her body convulsing, her walls clamping down on him. The feeling of her coming undone sent him over the edge.
He dragged her onto his lap with both hands on her hips. She straddled him, hair falling over his face, and the sight tore a prayer out of him. He clutched her so tightly his knuckles hurt.
She found her balance with a hand at his shoulder and another at his jaw, thumb brushing his mouth, eyes full of wicked tenderness.
"Drive me mad," he groaned. "Do you feel what you do to me."
"Good," she said softly, rocking against him.
He buried his face against her throat and marked her with teeth and devotion. When she tugged his hair, gentle but firm, he let his head fall back and met her gaze.
The room stopped. The look between them said stay and yes and more in the same breath.
"Please," he said, without dignity. "Please, do not stop."
She smiled like a woman who had found the exact key to his body. "I will not," she said, and moved with intent that stole his breath and returned it better.
Her hips rolled, slow and deliberate, each movement a promise and a threat. He felt himself unraveling, his control slipping through his fingers like sand.
"Fuck," he gasped, his hands tightening on her hips. "Luna, please."
"Yes," she said, her voice a purr. "I know what you need."
She moved faster, her hips slamming down on his, her nails digging into his shoulders. He met her thrust for thrust, his hips bucking up to meet hers.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, mixed with their moans and the creaking of the chair. Luna's eyes were dark with lust, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed.
"Theo," she gasped, her head falling back, her hair a curtain around them. "I'm close."
He growled, his hand slipping between their bodies to rub her clit. "Come for me again," he said, his voice rough with need. "Come on my cock."
She screamed, her body convulsing, her walls clamping down on him.
He gripped her hips and guided her, strong enough to set a rhythm that matched his racing heart, careful enough to worship the way she answered him. The contrast unmade her. She trembled, nails digging into his shoulders, and he praised every shiver.
"Good girl," he breathed. "That is it. Do not look away."
She did not. She met his eyes and begged for more, voice breaking in all the places that turned him inside out.
He gave it and added sweetness where the roughness might have gone too far. His mouth found the mark he had left and kissed it open and then soothed it closed.
"You are safe," he said. "I have you. Take all of me."
Her reply was a broken yes that shook in his hands.
He moved her on his cock, his hips bucking up to meet hers. She was tight, so tight, her walls gripping him like a vice. He groaned, his head falling back, his eyes rolling.
"Fuck, Luna," he gasped. "You feel so good. So fucking good."
He was in heaven. Now he knew that God existed and it was a woman. It was her.
He came with a shout, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his cum. He collapsed back against the bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat.
Luna slumped against him, her head on his shoulder, her body trembling. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, his lips pressing kisses to her hair.
"I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Gods, Luna, I love you so much."
She hummed, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I love you too. More than anything."
They stayed like that for a long while, breathing in the same slow rhythm, the air between them warm and quiet.
His forehead rested against hers, their skin still damp with heat. Neither of them spoke. The silence felt full, the kind that made the room seem smaller and safer all at once.
When his lungs stopped trembling, he kissed her hairline, soft and aimless, then moved to her temple.
His mouth lingered there, as if trying to memorise her pulse beneath the skin. The corner of her mouth was next, a kiss that wasn't meant to start anything, only to say I'm here. Each one came slower, calmer, until he could feel her breathing even out beneath his palm.
She shivered once. He reached for the sheet, pulled it up to her shoulders, and drew her close until she fit perfectly against his chest. For a long moment he only held her, eyes closed, hand splayed over the curve of her back, tracing the rise and fall that matched his own.
"Water," he murmured. It came out low, rough with affection.
She made a small sound of protest when he slipped away, though she didn't open her eyes. He crossed the room, bare feet whispering over the floor, and returned with a glass and a clean cloth.
"Sit up, love," he said quietly, steadying her hand as she drank. A drop slid down her lip, catching on her chin. He brushed it away with his thumb, then kissed the same place because he couldn't help himself.
When she finished, he set the glass aside and dipped the cloth in cool water. He worked in small circles, wiping gently, patient with every touch. Her hair clung to her cheek; he smoothed it back, his fingertips catching on the fine strands. She closed her eyes again, a faint smile playing at the edge of her mouth.
"Better?" he asked.
"Mmm," she hummed, already sinking deeper into the pillow.
He watched her for a while, the kind of watching that had no hunger left in it, only awe. The lamplight caught in her lashes, the faint colour still high on her cheeks. His chest tightened, not with lust but with something quieter and far more dangerous.
"Thank you," she whispered, eyes barely open.
He frowned, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "For what?"
"For staying gentle," she said. "For staying at all."
He exhaled, the sound soft against her hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
He tucked her beneath his chin, the weight of her settling over his heart like an oath. She breathed him in, slow and steady, one hand curled over his chest. He rested his cheek on her crown, closed his eyes, and listened. The world beyond the window went still.
The peppermint plant at the sill tilted toward the moon. The air carried the faint trace of lemons from the bowl in the kitchen. The house, newly theirs, held its breath and then released it, the way a body does when it decides to trust.
Sleep found him with her hand still on his chest, his name safe where she kept it, ready for whatever they would ask of the morning.
The house listened to their breathing and decided to keep time with them. The night held. The vow did not need repeating. It lay between them like a line of warm light, ordinary and holy, bright enough to find again with closed eyes.