You open the door before he even knocks. Clayton is there, on the stop, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

“I brought wine and your favorite pizza,” he says, his eyes tired but lit up when he sees you. “You seemed to need something more... quiet today.”

“I needed you.”

His smile softens, that smile only yours, that no one else sees.

He enters, takes off his shoes, drops his tie in some corner. You’re already wearing a sweatshirt and a wide T-shirt, the complete opposite of the goddess in a red party dress. But for him? You’ve never been more beautiful.

You sit on the living room floor, on a soft blanket. The pizza between you two, the wine served in glasses that don’t even match, but that only makes everything more intimate.

“Today was a crazy day,” you comment, taking a slice.

“Seeing you in the office was the highlight of my week,” he answers, looking at you as if he were forcing himself not to pull you even closer.

“Clay...”

“Hmm?”

“I like that. From us like this. Far from the rest.”

“Me too. More than I should, maybe.”

The silence comes soft. And then he gets up, goes to his playlist, changes the song for something slower - a soft guitar, hoarse voice singing some lyrics about really loving someone.

He reaches out to you, and even without knowing how to dance, you accept.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” you say, laughing already.

“So we laugh together.”

You guys dance. Slowly. Swinging on the living room carpet, surrounded by the smell of wine, the sound of low music and the kind of intimacy that screams more than any night of sex or public statement.

He whispers in your ear:

“When I’m here... it’s as if the rest of the world disappeared.”

You hold his face, his gaze firmly.

“Because he disappears, Clayton.”

And the kiss now is not in a hurry, there is no hunger. Just be sure.