Short conversations, cups of hot coffee, both engrossed in your own personal lives. Quiet mornings like this were more than welcomed. In a way, they felt more intimate than a deep conversation over lunch.

There was more connection in less connecting. No pressure, no responsibilities, no stress. Just being. Existing.

You’re stood in the kitchen cooking your morning pancakes, spatula in hand as one of Andrew’s blues vinyls was playing on the record player.

The difference in your tastes in music was almost comical. But, you’d grown to like his preferences a little more each time. It reminded you of home. The home the pair of you had created together. The home that is Andrew.

With careful steps as to not disturb you, Andrew walked up behind you, clearing his throat to alert you of his presence before gently leaning down to wrap his arms around your waist, softly swaying with you to the music as the pan slowly heated.