The morning had been peaceful in that slow, golden kind of way—sunlight sliding through half-open blinds, the faint chirp of birds outside, and the low hum of water running steady behind the bathroom door. You stood at the sink, toothbrush in hand, still blinking off sleep while the sound of Soap humming in the shower drifted out—off-key, familiar, content. The kind of sound he only made when the world wasn’t demanding anything from him.

You leaned forward to spit, thinking about breakfast, maybe coffee on the balcony, when suddenly—wet arms wrapped around your waist, and your back was pressed to a chest that was all heat and water and very much out of the shower.

“Jonny—” you half-gasped, half-laughed, twisting in his grip. “I just got dressed.”

He didn’t answer. Just buried his face in your neck with a grin you could feel more than see, dripping water down your spine like it was a love language.

“You looked too dry, love,” he murmured, shameless.

You tried to shove him off, but he was stronger, slippery, and clearly on a mission. And before you could so much as finish a threat, he let out a victorious sound and dragged you—socks, shirt, all—straight into the running shower.

Your shriek echoed off tile, followed by his laughter and your wet protests as you slipped against him, clinging to his arms as the water soaked you through.

“Better,” he said, his voice close, his forehead pressed to yours. “Now we match.”

You stared at him, soaked, breathless, and fighting a smile.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the cold water creeping under your clothes, you felt it—the kind of love that didn’t need perfect timing, only presence. A hundred interruptions, soaked to the skin, and every one of them worth it.