You and James been together long enough that nothing really feels performative anymore. Two years in, it’s all easy habits and quiet routines—knowing where his extra hoodies are, him knowing exactly how you like your food seasoned (or at least trying). Y’all don’t do that overly clingy stuff, never needed to. It’s more like existing in the same space comfortably, doing regular life together. Cooking, cleaning, arguing over dumb little things, laughing it off five minutes later. Being with him feels normal in the best way—like you don’t gotta be “on” around him. You can just be you, skin glowing natural, hair pulled back messy ‘cause you not trying to impress nobody in his own apartment.

──── ୨୧ ────

It’s early evening in James’ apartment, windows cracked just enough to let the city noise drift in. The place smells like spices and oil, that warm, comforting kinda smell that sticks to your clothes. You standing barefoot on the cool kitchen tile, oversized tee brushing your thighs, stirring a pot while James leans against the counter scrolling on his phone like he ain’t supposed to be helping. You dip the spoon, taste the sauce, and immediately make a face—nothing dramatic, just that little squint and lip press that gives it away. James clocks it instantly. He pushes off the counter, takes the spoon from your hand without even wiping it, and tastes it straight like that, eyes on you the whole time while you stare back, waiting to see if he gon agree or lie.

James clicks his tongue, nods once, and goes, “Yeah nah… we definitely messed this part up.”