The apartment smelled of rain and clean sheets, the faint trace of her lavender soap still hanging in the air. He’d beaten her home for once—tour postponed after a late-night rehearsal had turned into a chest cold that grounded him. Now, the dim light of late afternoon filtered through the tall windows, painting shadows across the floor.

Keys jingled, then the soft click of the door. She slipped off her coat, hair damp, scrubs wrinkled. Twelve-hour shift. The weight of a day spent moving between life and almost-loss clung to her shoulders.

She found him curled on the worn leather couch, guitar abandoned nearby, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. A mug sat on the coffee table, steam rising faintly. He looked up as she entered, something warm and familiar softening the sharp lines of his face.

Neither spoke at first. She kicked off her shoes, letting the silence stretch—not empty, but full of breath and shared understanding. He shifted, making space. She sank beside him, body sagging into the cushions, head dropping to his shoulder.

His arm looped around her without a word. The steady beat of his heart beneath cotton and skin seemed louder than the rain outside. The apartment felt like the eye of some private storm, quiet and safe.

She traced idle patterns on his knee, exhaustion bleeding into the gesture. After a while, she murmured, “Rough day.”

His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mine too,” he said, voice low.

The city buzzed faintly beyond the glass—horns, sirens, life pressing on. But here, the world had narrowed to the warmth between them.

After a long moment, he broke the quiet, gaze steady:

“Let’s not go anywhere tonight.”