The kettle whistles softly in the kitchen, and the scent of fresh scones drifts through the open windows. Your mum is mid-story about a goat she saw on a hiking trail in Crete—gesturing animatedly with her teacup—while your dad nods along, occasionally chiming in with dry commentary that makes you laugh.

You’re curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath you, Danny beside you with his arm loosely draped around your waist. He’s been quiet all day, blinking slowly, smiling faintly, but you know the signs. He didn’t sleep last night—woke up every hour for no reason, restless and foggy. You’d offered to reschedule, but he insisted. “I’ll rally,” he’d said, rubbing his eyes and kissing your forehead. “I miss them too.”

Now, as your mum launches into a tangent about Greek olives, you feel Danny shift beside you. His head dips, then gently lands on your shoulder. You glance down.

He’s asleep.

His breathing is soft and steady, lips parted just slightly, lashes resting against his cheeks. One hand still loosely holds yours, thumb twitching now and then like he’s dreaming of something slow and quiet.

You smile, brushing a curl from his forehead.

Your mum pauses mid-sentence. “Is he alright?”

You nod. “Just sleepy. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

She softens. “Poor love. Let him rest. He looks peaceful.”

Your dad chuckles. “That’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him since he tried to fix our boiler.”

You all laugh quietly, careful not to wake him. The conversation drifts on, gentle and low, while you sit there with Danny asleep against you—his weight warm and familiar, like a kind of home.