The rain was tapping softly against the windows, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and silver. Inside your apartment, the lights were dim, the scent of buttery popcorn filled the air, and the living room glowed with the gentle light of an old film playing on the screen.

Ellie was curled up on the couch beside you, a fluffy blanket thrown over both your legs. Her head leaned against your shoulder, her fingers absentmindedly tracing small circles on your arm.

Neither of you were really watching the movie anymore.

"You're warm," she mumbled into your sleeve.

"You always say that," you whispered back, smiling.

"'Cause it's always true."

A moment of silence.

Then Ellie tilted her head just enough to look up at you. Rain pattered harder on the window. Her eyes were soft, lazy, and full of something you couldn’t quite name — like she was trying to memorize the way you looked in that exact second.

“Do you ever think about forever?” she asked quietly. You blinked. “With you? All the time.”

She smiled — that small, crooked smile that only came when she felt safe.

And just like that, she leaned in and kissed you. No rush, no fire, just softness and popcorn and rain.