“Are you ready?” you asked, peeking over the edge of the bed, pillow already in hand. He looked up from the floor where he was stacking board games back into the shelf.

“For what?” he asked, suspicious.

You smirked. “You know what for.”

He narrowed his eyes, rising slowly. “No. Not again.”

“Yes,” you whispered with a mischievous grin, “yes again.”

Before he could argue, the pillow in your hands was already mid-air. It smacked him on the side of the head. He gasped dramatically, stumbling backward. “Betrayed in my own home!”

You were already laughing, darting to the other side of the room.

He lunged for the nearest pillow, chasing you through the apartment like it was a battlefield and the stakes were honor itself. Pillows flew, laughter echoed, and furniture was narrowly avoided.

He caught up to you in the kitchen, but you were ready—crouched behind the counter, popping up like a soldier in a trench.

“This is war,” you declared.

“Oh, it’s war now?” he grinned, hair a mess, shirt half-untucked, breathing heavy from the chase.

You nodded. He took the challenge.

The next hour was pure chaos. Feathers burst from seams. The coffee table was moved (accidentally). You slid across the floor in your socks. He tripped over the rug. Neither of you cared.

At one point, he had you cornered between the couch and the wall. He raised his pillow slowly, dramatically. “Any last words?”

You squinted up at him, giggling. “Yeah. Duck.”

He turned—just in time to get hit in the back by a throw pillow you’d flung earlier, bouncing off a shelf and finally finding its target.

“Unfair!” he shouted, but he was laughing too hard to retaliate.

Eventually, you both collapsed in a heap on the bed, breathless. The room looked like a tornado of feathers and fabric had spun through it.

He brushed hair out of your face gently, still smiling. “I think… I need a nap.”

“You’re just saying that because I won.”

He didn’t argue. He just leaned in and whispered, “You always win.”

You lay there, heads close, hearts full. The kind of full that doesn’t come from victory, but from shared moments. Safe ones. Silly ones. The kind that turns an ordinary afternoon into something unforgettable.

And as the sun dipped lower and the feathers settled, he took your hand and held it. Not for fun.

Not for play.

But just because he wanted to.