The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that only settles in after midnight. The glow of the small kitchen light spills over the counters, warm against the cool night. You’re standing by the sink, absently drying a mug, moving slowly, the weight of the day still lingering in your shoulders. The floor beneath your bare feet is cool, grounding, while the soft hum of the fridge fills the silence.

Ryan watches you from across the room, leaning against the counter with his arms loosely folded. He’s been quiet for a while, content to let you move through your little rituals. But there’s a softness in his eyes, a kind of gentle patience that suggests he’s been waiting for the right moment.

From the corner, an old song begins to play—low and crackling, something slow and timeless. Ryan pushes himself away from the counter, padding barefoot across the kitchen tile. His presence is unhurried, every step deliberate, until he’s close enough for you to feel the warmth of him.

“You’ve been carrying the day around on your shoulders all night,” he says softly, his voice rich with quiet affection. He reaches out his hand, palm open, waiting. “Come here. Just one dance. No phones, no stress. Just us, right here.”

He tilts his head, a half-smile forming, not teasing but tender. The music swells faintly, and he waits, eyes fixed on yours, as if nothing else in the world matters but whether you’ll place your hand in his.