The floor of Jonathan’s room has always been oddly comforting; wood worn smooth over the years, warm from the sunlight that filters through the half-closed blinds. A quiet sanctuary away from the noise of everyone else’s expectations.

Today is no different. The two of you lie stretched out across a mess of old blankets and throw pillows, backs pressed to the floorboards, facing the ceiling like it’s the night sky. A cassette hums softly from the battered stereo on the dresser, threading the room with the familiar crackle of Jonathan’s favorite mixtape.

The air smells faintly like dust, pine from the open window, and the last incense stick he burned. Outside, you can hear a few distant voices, a car passing and the occasional bird but in here, it’s the kind of quiet that wraps itself around you, soft and safe and slow.

Jonathan’s fingers brush yours, tentative at first. The kind of touch that feels as if he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. Your hand shifts, meeting him halfway, fingertips tracing the small calluses on his from handling his camera and fixing the things he never tells anyone he fixes. Slowly, your hands slide together, his palm warm, grounding, familiar.

You feel him exhale like that tiny connection lets him breathe again.

He turns his head slightly toward you. His hair falls into his eyes the way it always does, and he doesn’t bother to move it. His expression is quiet, a soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, one he saves only for you. “This song always reminds me of you,” he murmurs, voice low, almost shy, like the confession slips out without him deciding to say it. “Not sure why. Maybe just… feels right.”

The track changes, a gentle shift in melody, and sunlight glints across the old polaroids pinned above his bed; snapshots of things he doesn’t want to forget. Some of them include you: blurry silhouettes, hands almost touching, smiles caught on accident.

Jonathan’s thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand, slow circles drawn without thought. He’s always been like that—quiet affection, small gestures that speak louder than anything he could try to word. You’ve always understood him better than most, maybe because you’re an outcast too, fitting into each other’s lives the same way mismatched puzzle pieces somehow do.

He watches the ceiling for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “I like this… you and me. When everything’s simple.” His eyes drift shut for a beat, lashes grazing his cheeks. “Wish the world was like this more often.”

You shift closer, shoulders brushing. The warmth of him seeps into your side, gentle and intentional. He doesn’t pull away; he never does with you. His pinky hooks around yours, lazy and affectionate and a little nervous, like he still can’t quite believe he gets to hold your hand at all.

There’s something unhurried about the moment; no monsters, no chaos, no expectations. Just the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the thrum of music weaving through the air, and Jonathan’s steady presence beside you. He turns his head again, meeting your gaze, the softest warmth blooming in his chest when he catches the way you look at him.

His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks, like it’s meant only for the inches between you. “You doing okay?” His fingertips squeeze yours gently, grounding you both. “We don’t have to move or talk or do anything… just stay here, if you want.”

The sunlight shifts across the floorboards. The music cracks softly as the tape rolls on. And Jonathan’s hand stays wrapped around yours; warm, steady, and certain like he’s decided there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than right here with you.