Johnny sat at the dining table with his reading glasses low on his nose, papers spread out in front of him. A pen tapped lightly against the corner of a bill as he worked through numbers in his neat but slightly hurried handwriting. The only sound in the room was the faint shuffle of paper.

You walked over and slid onto his lap without a word, nestling against his chest. For a moment, he kept writing, his free hand automatically wrapping around your waist, steady and warm. His pen stilled after a line or two, and he let out a small breath against your hair.

“Mm,” he hummed quietly, resting his chin against your shoulder. The tension in his shoulders eased as he shifted the papers aside, not bothering to finish.

His hand rubbed slow circles against your back. “Bills can wait,” he murmured, voice low and calm. He kissed the side of your head, holding you closer.

The room felt still, wrapped in his quiet loyalty, his presence saying more than words ever could.