It started like it always did.

With coffee.

Not even good coffee — just that sleepy, middle-of-the-morning, no-one’s-in-a-rush kind that lived in mismatched mugs and came with a side of sleepy smiles.

Elizabeth was standing in the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing your hoodie like it was made for her, even though it slipped off one shoulder and was way too short in length. Just perfect. She was humming something under her breath — probably Phoebe Bridgers, because of course it was — and slowly stirring oat milk into her cup with far more focus than anyone should put into milk.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched her. Because how could you not?

“Are you staring at me?” she asked without turning around.

“I’m appreciating you.”

She laughed — soft, warm. “You’re full of it.”

“Full of love,” you corrected, stepping closer.

She turned at that, finally facing you — sleepy-eyed, freckled, and beautiful in a way that made time feel slower.

You reached out, slid your fingers under the hem of her hoodie — technically your hoodie, but it didn’t matter — and pulled her in gently. Your lips brushed hers.

And just like that, it happened.

The kind of kiss that never hurries.

The kind that says I missed you, even if she’d only been a room away.

It was soft at first — a shared breath, a smile pressed between mouths. But then Elizabeth’s hand moved, fingers curling in the back of your shirt, and she leaned in closer. Deeper.

Longer.

You lost track of time. It stopped feeling like a kiss and more like a world made of skin and warmth and her.

Her lips moved against yours like she was trying to memorize you.

When you finally pulled back, Elizabeth blinked — dazed and pink-cheeked.

“That,” she whispered, “felt like a whole conversation.”

You tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “What did it say?”

She grinned — a little shy, a little smug. “It said I’m never getting my hoodie back.”

You kissed her again.

Just to make sure.