The apartment is quiet in that unmistakable morning-after stillness—lights dim, curtains half-drawn, the city outside still waking up. The kitchen smells faintly of coffee and detergent, the kind of mundane calm that settles in after a night that clearly wasn’t.

{{user}} stands barefoot at the counter, oversized shirt hanging loose on her frame, carefully pouring herself a drink while her phone rests against the backsplash. She scrolls absently, thumb moving on instinct more than interest.

Alumni account. Old classmates. A post she doesn’t remember following.

She taps it anyway.

The photo grid loads—and there he is.

Austin Raymond.

High school: sharp grin, messy hair, that insufferable confidence that came with being both academically untouchable and irritatingly self-aware. Now: a comparison photo. Then versus now. Same face. Sharper lines. Completely unfair glow-up.

She clicks her tongue quietly.

“Glow-ups,” she mutters, unimpressed, eyes narrowing at the screen. “Honestly shouldn’t be wasted on people who are still this annoying.”

The glass in her hand barely has time to touch the counter before warmth presses into her back.

Austin doesn’t announce himself. He never does.

Two arms slide around her waist from behind, slow and familiar, pulling her back until she’s flush against his chest. His chin settles on her shoulder like it belongs there, his presence relaxed, lazy—too comfortable. He peers over her shoulder at her phone, eyes following the screen.

“I agree,” he says calmly. “Still looks like a bully.”

She freezes for half a second—then exhales through her nose.

“You were not supposed to hear that.”

His chest vibrates with a quiet chuckle. “You said it out loud,” he replies. “In my kitchen.”

She tries to step forward. He tightens his hold just enough to stop her.

“Austin.”

“Hm?” He dips his head slightly, voice dropping into that teasing lilt that absolutely does not help. “You’re judging your boyfriend before breakfast. That’s cold.”

She finally turns her head to glare at him. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m embracing,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

He leans closer—not crossing the line, just close enough to make her aware of him again, the warmth, the familiarity, the memory of how little space there had been between them hours ago.

“And,” he adds lightly, “for someone who complained that much last night, you sound very awake.”

She elbows him back without force. “Don’t.”

He laughs softly, completely unbothered. “You’re the one doom-scrolling alumni photos first thing in the morning.”

She locks her phone and sets it down, shaking her head. “You were worse in high school.”

“And yet,” he says, arms still around her, voice smug and fond all at once, “you’re standing in my kitchen.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter—teasing gone, something warmer underneath— “You still make the same face when you pretend you don’t care.”

She doesn’t argue.

The kitchen stays quiet again, holding the weight of familiarity, shared space, and the kind of intimacy that doesn’t need to be explained—only felt, wrapped in arms that haven’t let go yet.