The morning after still felt like a dream. The air was soft, the kind that carried yesterday's laughter in quiet echoes. Nathan had gone to the kitchen before me, and I could hear faint clattering — spoons against pans, music humming from his phone, and his voice, low, singing along.
When I stepped in, he turned to me with that lazy smile that always made my chest tighten.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said.
He was wearing my favorite color — that plain white T-shirt that always made him look like peace in human form.
"I thought I'd surprise you," he said, showing me the half-burnt toast like it was a masterpiece.
I laughed so hard I almost dropped the mug I was holding. "You're definitely full of surprises."
We ended up cooking together, shoulder to shoulder. He'd sneak glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Sometimes our hands brushed over the knife handle, or when I turned, I'd find him watching me with that same expression — the kind that made the world slow down for a second.
He asked me to taste the sauce. I leaned in, and he held the spoon steady, watching my lips as I blew on it softly. "Hmm," I said, pretending to think. "It's not bad."
"Not bad?" he frowned playfully, "You mean perfect."
I rolled my eyes, and he grinned before pulling me by the waist, sauce forgotten. His arms felt like home — warm, steady, and unhurried. He rested his chin on my shoulder and whispered, "I love moments like this. Simple. Real."
We ate by the window, the sunlight slipping through the curtains and kissing his face golden. I caught myself staring. He noticed.
"What?" he asked, smiling.
"Nothing," I said, trying to hide it.
He leaned closer. "No, tell me."
"I was just thinking…" I said, stirring my drink slowly, "I like this version of us. It feels safe."
He nodded. "Then let's keep it that way."
The rest of the day blurred into softness — laughter, crumbs on the counter, his head on my lap while I scrolled through songs on his playlist.
He suddenly sat up. "Wanna hear something?"
He played two songs he hadn't released yet — both raw, both his heart poured out in lyrics.
"I can't decide which one to drop next," he said, watching my face carefully.
I closed my eyes, letting the melody sink in. "This one," I said after a while, pointing to the softer track.
He smiled, that proud kind of smile that told me he valued my opinion more than he'd admit.
"Then that's the one," he said, "because you chose it."
Later, when I helped him wash the dishes, he splashed water on me. I gasped and returned the favor until we were both laughing like kids. Then, somewhere between the laughter and the quiet, he reached for me again — not in hunger, but in gratitude.
That night, we stood under the shower, the water warm against our skin. He brushed my wet hair from my face, his eyes searching mine like he was memorizing them.
No words, no rush. Just the sound of falling water and two hearts trying to speak through silence.
And when his lips met mine, it wasn't wild — it was slow, reverent, like a promise whispered into the steam.
I rested my forehead against his, both of us catching our breath, and for a moment, I wished time could freeze.
Because right then, I realized something — love didn't have to roar to be real.
Sometimes, it just needed to be quiet enough for peace to stay.