Freddie’s room reeked of weed, but somehow, it still felt like the safest place on Earth.

You were lying with your head on Freddie's chest, one arm draped lazily across Freddie’s stomach. His hand rested gently on your waist, lightly tracing his fingertips along your skin.

“You know,” he murmured, “I had no idea what to get you. Everyone’s out buying crap. Roses, chocolate, teddy bears wearing bloody suits.”

You laughed softly. “Did you get me a teddy bear in a suit?”

He scoffed. “Nah. Too posh. Didn’t seem like you.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly so you could look up at him. His hair was messy, eyes warm in the soft lamplight.

“Well, I didn’t get you anything either,” you said, fingers drawing slow circles over the hem of his t-shirt. “Unless you count me being here.”

“I do,” he said, immediately.

The night had been simple — cheap takeout, a terrible horror movie you both laughed through, and a joint shared under the open window. Now, wrapped up in blankets with your legs tangled together, everything had gone quiet except for the low hum of the stereo and the sound of Freddie breathing.

“I like this,” he said, his voice softer now. “You. Here. Not just for Valentine’s… Just. I dunno. Wish we could do this every night.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Familiar. Like you’d done it a thousand times, and would a thousand more.