The night felt unhurried, the kind where time slipped by unnoticed. A soft playlist hummed low from the speaker on the shelf, the kind of music you both always put on without really thinking about it. The lamp beside the sofa cast a warm amber glow over the room, catching on the half-empty mugs of tea you’d forgotten on the table.

Leo was sprawled lazily against the sofa cushions, shirtless, still a little damp from his shower. His hair clung in uneven strands across his forehead, and he hadn’t bothered to dry it fully. You sat curled up beside him, knees tucked to your chest, watching the way his chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm. He noticed your eyes lingering and tilted his head, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “What are you staring at?” he teased, reaching out to tug gently at your sleeve.

“You,” you admitted, a little sheepish.

That grin softened into something quieter, more tender. He leaned closer, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you into the curve of his body. “Good,” he murmured against your hair, “because I’ve been staring at you this whole time.”

Your palm rested against his chest, the warmth of his skin seeping into your hand. His heartbeat was steady beneath your touch. He bent down, brushing his lips against your temple before finding your mouth in a kiss—slow, unhurried, the kind that left your breath catching a little when he pulled back. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm as he whispered, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. To you.”

The playlist shifted, a softer song playing now, and he chuckled, breaking the silence. “This song makes me want to dance with you,” he said, tightening his arm around your waist, tugging you closer onto his lap.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You don’t even know how to dance.”

“True,” he said, grinning as he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips. “But I’d figure it out if it meant holding you like this.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, his hand resting at the back of your neck as though he didn’t want you to slip away. The kiss deepened before he pulled back, his laughter rumbling softly against your chest when you chased after his lips again. Moments like this weren’t cinematic or polished—they were real. The creak of the sofa under your shifting weight, the faint drip of water from his still-damp hair onto your shoulder, his playful smirk when you complained about it. The warmth of his skin, the taste of tea still faint on his lips, and the simple, grounding truth of being in his arms.

“Stay like this for a while,” he murmured finally, his voice quieter now, almost a plea. His thumb brushed absently against your hip. “No rushing, no tomorrow—just us.”

And you did.