The house is quiet when I hear the faint jingle of keys, the familiar scrape of metal against the little ceramic dish by the front door. It’s late. Later than I wanted it to be for her. I’ve been pacing the living room for the last twenty minutes, half-watching some show on the telly, half-listening for the sound of her footsteps.

Running her own fashion company has turned her into the busiest person I’ve ever known, and I admire her for it endlessly, but I can also see the way it wears her down. She pours herself into every design, every stitch, every fitting, until there’s nothing left for her at the end of the day except exhaustion. And yet, even when she’s tired, she carries herself with that kind of light that drew me in from the start.

I lean against the sofa when she finally appears, the strap of her bag sliding down her arm as she kicks off her shoes by the door. She doesn’t even notice me at first, too focused on tugging out her hair clip, shaking her head until loose strands fall around her face. But when she lifts her gaze and sees me waiting, her lips curve into the smallest smile, and for a moment, that’s all I need.

“Long day?” I ask, even though I already know. She gives a breathy laugh, setting her bag down with a thud. “The longest. I swear I don’t think I sat down once today.” I push off the sofa, walking toward her slowly. She looks like she’s about to sink right into the floor from tiredness, and part of me wants to scoop her up and make her stay in bed for the next twelve hours. But another part of me—the selfish part—wants to remind her that there’s more to life than deadlines and fabric samples. That she’s allowed to have soft moments, too.

“Good thing you’re home now, yeah?” I murmur, reaching for her hand. She blinks, surprised when I tug her gently into the middle of the room.

“Harry, what are you—”

Before {{user}} can finish, I press the button on the speaker. A soft melody fills the room, familiar and warm. Our song. The one we always go back to, no matter how much time passes, no matter how many new ones come along. Her brows lift, but I can see the flicker of something in her eyes—something that tells me she needs this more than she’ll ever admit.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head. But she doesn’t pull away. “Maybe,” I whisper, sliding a hand around her waist, pulling her closer until there’s hardly any space between us. “But dance with me anyway.” Her hands find their way to my shoulders as naturally as if they’ve lived there all along. We start to sway, no rhythm, no real steps, just the two of us moving slow and steady to the music. I can feel the tension in her body start to melt with each passing second, her forehead dropping to my chest, her breath warming the fabric of my shirt.

I close my eyes, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. The world outside—the endless rush of work, the noise, the expectations—none of it exists here. It’s just us, turning gentle circles on the hardwood floor.

“You know,” I say quietly, “you don’t always have to carry it all on your own. You’re allowed to let go sometimes.” She tilts her head back, meeting my gaze, her eyes glassy but soft. “If I let go, everything falls apart.” I shake my head, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Not if I’m here to catch it.”

For a moment, the song swells, wrapping around us like a cocoon. She lets out the smallest laugh when I spin her once, clumsy but deliberate, her body twirling back into mine. The sound of her laughter fills the room, brighter than anything else, and I swear I’d spend the rest of my life trying to make her laugh just like that.

“This might be my favorite part of the day,” she whispers, her voice muffled against me.

“Mine too,” I reply, tightening my hold on her, memorizing the way she feels in my arms. Because this is it—this is the part of life that matters. Not the chaos, not the noise, not the endless lists of things to do. Just us, dancing in the living room to a song that feels like home.