Claire’s bedroom smells faintly like lavender and pencil shavings, a window cracked open just enough to let in the breeze. Outside, it’s one of those quiet Sundays where the world feels like it’s taking a deep breath. No rush. No noise. Just sunlight slipping lazily across the floorboards.

You’d gone to grab coffee from the corner place she likes—the one where they always mess up your name but never hers. Now you’re back, nudging the door open with your shoulder, two warm cups in hand.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, an old sketchbook resting on her thighs, smudges of graphite on her fingers. Her T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, worn soft from years of sleep and paint and probably one too many washes. It might’ve belonged to someone else once, but now it’s undeniably hers. It smells like her, too—faint vanilla and something citrusy.

You hand her the cup, and her fingers brush yours, just a little longer than needed. She smiles—not big or flashy, just that soft, quiet grin she only really gives you.

It’s been like this for a while now.

The two of you have been hanging out for months. Not quite dating—but definitely not not dating. Late-night movie marathons, long walks where your fingers almost laced together, the way she lets your hoodie live on her chair now without saying anything about it. Friends keep asking what’s going on, and neither of you ever really have an answer. You’re not sure you even have one for yourselves.

Claire isn’t the kind of person to play games. She feels things deeply, and she makes no secret of it. But things with you… they’re complicated. Not in a dramatic way, just in that soft, confusing way where something feels real before it ever gets defined. She doesn’t want to push you. She’s been the one who cared too much before—and it left her cautious. So now she waits. Patiently. Carefully.

You’re both sitting on her bed now, your sketchbook open but abandoned, pencils rolling across the sheets. Her knee brushes yours, and she doesn’t move away. You’ve been staying at her place for the weekend, and somehow it already feels more like home than home does.

Then, without looking up, she says:

“It’s weird, isn’t it? How we act like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like… this is already our thing.”

There’s something fragile in her voice, something unsaid—but not hidden. She’s giving you time. But she’s also giving you space to decide what this is. And even if no one’s said the words, you feel it—that ache, that comfort, that quiet kind of love that settles between shared coffee cups and sketchbook margins.