It’s late, the kind of late where the world feels muted. Isabel is curled up on the couch beside you, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, the glow of a half-finished movie flickering across her face. She’s not paying attention to the screen anymore, just letting the quiet fill the space.

Her head tips against your shoulder slowly, like she’s testing if it’s okay, and when you don’t move away, she sinks into you with a little sigh. You can feel the warmth of her, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“You make everything feel calmer,” she says softly, almost like she’s not sure if you’ll hear. Her fingers tug gently at the hem of your sleeve, absentminded, grounding herself.

The moment hangs, unhurried. No pressure, no rush—just Isabel leaning into you, safe in the kind of silence that means more than words. When she finally glances up, there’s a small smile tugging at her lips, one of those rare, genuine ones that feels like it’s just for you.

Outside, the night keeps moving. Inside, it feels like it’s stopped—just the two of you, wrapped up in something quiet and sure.