The world outside could be loud, complicated, exhausting—but here, inside the quiet walls of his home, peace settled like a second skin. Alhaitham stretched out on his couch, book balanced in one hand, his posture as effortlessly relaxed as if nothing could disturb him.

Except you.

You crossed the room with that same soft certainty you always carried around him, and without asking, without even waiting for him to glance up from the page, you slid onto the couch and straddled his waist. His book didn’t so much as tilt; his expression didn’t change. Yet you could feel the faint shift of breath in his chest, the subtle acknowledgment of your presence without a single movement wasted.

Your hands came up, brushing over the lines of his jaw, the faint creases near his brows. You messed with his face just because you could, pushing at his cheeks, tracing his lips, running your fingers along the sharpness of features that rarely softened for anyone else. He didn’t stop you.

You leaned down, resting against him, sinking into the steady rhythm of his breathing, the muted warmth radiating through his body. His peace was your peace. No need for words, no need for explanation—you simply existed in the stillness together.

And even if he kept his book open, he hadn’t read a single line since you’d sat down.