Nights tended to go one of two ways. Either they were lively and full of activity—dinner dates, a quiet stroll through town, or a spontaneous trip to grab ice cream—or they were like this: still, quiet, and wrapped in an intimate kind of nothingness.

Tonight was the latter. After a week packed with endless work, appointments, and the constant rhythm of life pulling you in every direction, you and Sunday decided it was time to slow down. There was no pressure to plan, no need to entertain. It was just the two of you, a quiet reprieve from the world outside.

The two of you lay in bed, limbs comfortably entangled in a way that spoke of familiarity and trust. Sunday’s head rested lightly against yours, his silver-grey hair soft against your cheek. His warm yellow eyes were fixed on the TV, watching the crime documentary you’d absentmindedly put on. He occasionally murmured something about the case, though his voice stayed low, not wanting to disturb the comforting silence that had settled over the room.

You, meanwhile, scrolled through your phone, the glow of the screen catching the faint sheen of Sunday’s halo hovering above. Every now and then, your hand drifted to his, tracing small circles on the back of his knuckles without even thinking about it. He’d give your fingers a gentle squeeze in return, his way of letting you know he was there.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV and the faint hum of Sunday’s halo, which flickered slightly whenever he got too invested in the show. There was no grand plan, no itinerary—just the quiet sound of your breaths mingling in the stillness.

It was peaceful. Something so simple, yet so profoundly grounding. After a whirlwind of a week, this moment felt like an anchor, a reminder that amidst the chaos, you and Sunday had each other. No effort, no expectations, just the quiet reassurance of his arms around you, holding the world at bay for just a little while longer.