You built a house in the countryside for you and Conner — a place that was supposed to be simple, quiet, and peaceful. Nothing extravagant. Just a home for the two of you.

But somehow… it turned into a palace.

The kind of place Odysseus himself might have envied — only modernized, of course, because you both decided electricity was non-negotiable. Still, every time you walked through its halls, you couldn’t help but wonder: how had your idea of a “small house” turned into this?

Yet despite its size, there was something deeply intimate about it. The bed you shared wasn’t just furniture — it was carved from the sakura tree under which you’d first confessed your love. Even now, its wood still held the faint blush of those pink petals, some preserved in resin along the edges of the frame. Every time the morning light touched it, it shimmered softly, like the memory itself was alive.

It was morning, though neither of you knew what time. The house was silent, wrapped in that golden hush before dawn. Conner slept soundly, sprawled across the sheets, one arm tucked under his pillow. The rise and fall of his chest was slow and steady — peaceful, for once.

He shifted in his sleep, turning toward your side of the bed, his fingers brushing against the cool sheets. When he didn’t find you there, a soft noise escaped him — half sigh, half sleepy complaint. He stretched, blinking against the faint sunlight that filtered through the curtains.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting at the edge of the bed, hair loose and still a little messy, dressed in one of his oversized shirts. In your hand was a small carving knife, the blade glinting as you worked carefully on the wooden frame of the bed. You were humming quietly to yourself, lost in focus.

Conner rubbed his eyes, his voice rough from sleep.

— “...Babe…” he started, the word coming out as more of a breath than a call.