The fireplace flickered below the TV, orange flames dancing behind the glass. The screen flashed with displays of a movie long forgotten by its audience, the dialogue fading away into mere background noise, occupying the space. A guitar stood somewhere in the corner, picture frames on the mantle, a few decorating the walls, providing a sense security and recognition.

His arms comfortably draped over you, hand entwined with yours as you laid back against him, his chest against your back. His other hand found purchase in your hair, running through the strands, twirling the ends around his finger, or his fingertips were busy tracing idle shapes and patterns into your skin. His nose nuzzled against the side of your head, content with the relaxed environment — such a contrast from roaring crowds and demanding and relentless paparazzi.

“I wish it could be like this all the time,” he mumbled, his eyes closed with the drowsiness from the long flight it took to return home. But sleep was nearly the last thing on his mind, rather opting to bask in the feeling of having you in his arms again, the simple familiarity of what really felt like home. “Just us,” he added softly.