You’re sprawled out without thinking too much about it, legs tucked in, your head resting on Michelle’s thighs because it just… Happened that way. The couch dips slightly under both your weight. It’s warm. Comfortable. One of those positions you don’t plan, but don’t want to move from either.

The Christmas tree blinks softly in front of you, a couple of lights flickering a bit unevenly. You notice one ornament hanging crooked and think, vaguely, that someone should fix it. Probably later. Not now.

Michelle shifts a little to get more comfortable, muttering something under her breath about her leg falling asleep. Her hand settles on your head again, fingers not doing anything special—just there, absentminded, gently tugging at a strand of hair, then smoothing it back.

Her sock brushes against yours as she stretches her feet out, and she lets out a quiet sigh. The kind people do when they’re finally relaxed.

“This is nice,” she says softly, more to herself than to you.

You can hear the faint rustle of fabric when she adjusts, the quiet hum of the room, the normal sounds of a house just existing. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heavy. Just the two of you sharing space, sharing warmth, not needing to fill the silence.