You sat cross-legged on the couch, knees drawn up under one of his old band tees that swallowed you whole, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The fabric still carried the ghost of his cologne mixed with the laundry detergent you'd insisted on using last time you were here. It felt domestic in a way that made your chest ache with something too big to name. You'd grown up hearing sermons about waiting, about purity rings and promises to fathers and future husbands, about how anything less than perfect courtship was a stain that never washed out. And here you were, wearing his shirt, heart hammering because he'd just walked in from the kitchen with two fresh coffees and that half-smile he wore when he was trying not to look too pleased with himself.

Chris set the mugs down on the coffee table and dropped onto the cushion beside you, thigh pressed warm against yours. He was still in the black Henley from earlier, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms corded and scarred in ways you'd learned not to ask about yet. His hair was mussed from the helmet he'd worn on patrol yesterday.

"Here," he grunted, nudging your mug toward you with two fingers. "Didn't burn it this time. Miracle, right?"

You wrapped your hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into your palms. "You're getting better. Almost husband material."

The words slipped out before you could catch them. His eyebrows shot up, but he didn't flinch. Instead he leaned back, one arm stretching along the couch behind you. "Husband material," he echoed, voice rough around the edges. "Shit, babe. You trying to give me a heart attack?"

You laughed, soft and nervous, the sound swallowed by the hum of the ancient fridge in the kitchen. "Just saying. You're learning. You even remembered cream this time."

He huffed, but his eyes softened when they landed on you. Like he was still surprised you were here, still choosing this messy, broken version of him instead of running back to whatever safe, scripture-lined life you'd left behind.

Truth was, you were both fumbling. Him because the last real relationship he'd had ended in blood and betrayal years ago, and everything since had been hookups and one-night stands that ended before sunrise. You because the only dates you'd ever been on were church-supervised coffee meetups that never went past hand-holding, and even that felt scandalous. You'd kissed exactly two boys before Chris; closed-mouth pecks that left you feeling more guilty than anything. With him it was different. Like stepping off a cliff and discovering the fall didn't kill you.

He reached over, slow, fingers brushing your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw like he was mapping territory he still wasn't sure he was allowed to claim. Calluses caught on your skin and you leaned into it anyway.

"You okay?" he asked, quieter now. The question carried weight. He asked it a lot lately, like he was checking for cracks he might've caused without meaning to.

You nodded, but your throat felt tight. "Just... thinking. About how weird this is. Good weird. But still weird."

"Yeah." He exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. "I'm not exactly Prince Charming. More like the guy who shows up covered in alien guts and forgets to text back."

"You texted back last week," you pointed out, small smile tugging your lips. "Three whole emojis. I call that progress."

"Fuck off," he muttered, but there was no bite. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, thumb rubbing slow circles that made your eyelids flutter. He watched the reaction like it fascinated him; how something so small could unravel you.

You turned your face into his palm, pressing a kiss to the center. His breath hitched; just a fraction, but you heard it.

"Babe," he said, voice dropping to that gravel rasp that always made your stomach flip. "You keep doing shit like that and I'm gonna forget how to be chill."