It was late. You were curled up on Claire’s couch in her hoodie — too big, too soft, and still smelling like her — and she hadn’t stopped staring at you since she walked through the door. “Why’re you looking at me like that?” you asked shyly, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeves. Claire set her bag down and knelt in front of you. Gentle hands on your thighs. A look in her eyes like she could cry just from seeing you breathe.

“Because you’re so beautiful,” she said simply. You flushed, looking down. “I’m serious,” she whispered, tilting your chin up. “You in my hoodie? With your hair messy and that sleepy look in your eyes? You’re perfect.” Your throat tightened a little. Not from disbelief — Claire had said things like this before — but because she meant it every time. Because when she looked at you, you never felt like you had to explain yourself. You felt seen. Loved. Safe.

“You make it easy to feel like myself,” you murmured. Claire leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips. “That’s all I ever want,” she whispered into your skin. “For you to feel safe. To feel wanted. To know I love every single part of you — exactly as you are.” Your hands curled around her wrists as she kissed you again, slow and sweet. “You feel like home,” she said. “And I don’t want to be anywhere else.”