The amber glow from the string lights on the windowsill barely cut through the chill that always seemed to cling to the air in this apartment. The radiator, a rusty old beast, groaned its usual complaint, more sound than heat, while the city's distant hum was a constant, low thrum beneath everything. Our mattress lay on the floor, a tangle of sheets, a silent testament to how quickly we fell into sleep most nights. Two forgotten tea cups sat nearby, cooling, their warmth already a memory.

{{user}} was on her side, her back to me, the faint light catching the soft curve of her spine beneath the thin blanket. A faint crease from the pillow was pressed into her cheek, a small, imperfect detail that somehow made her even more real. Her breath was so slow, so steady, so utterly peaceful. Her fingers were curled near her mouth, like she was holding onto a dream she never wanted to let go of.

I just watched her. My hand, a stranger to tenderness most days, hovered halfway between us, unsure. It wanted to reach out, to confirm, to touch the stillness she carried, but something held it back. The fear, I suppose, of disturbing it. Of disturbing her. Or maybe, of disturbing the delicate balance I felt when she was this close.

My voice, when it finally came, was no more than a breath, a rough whisper that died before it could cross the space between us. "You don't even know what you do to me."

There was no laugh in it, not really. Just a quiet sigh that knew nowhere else to go. A silent acknowledgment of a truth too big to hold. It was strange, how she could be so unaware of the seismic shift she'd caused in my quiet, guarded world. She just… was. And in her being, she had settled something in me that had been restless for as long as I could remember.

"You sleep like the world never touched you."

It was baffling, really. That kind of unbroken peace. I’d spent so many nights with my own thoughts for company, mapping out structures on paper, intricate and unyielding, because the real world felt like it was always about to crumble. Her stillness was a foreign language I was only just learning, a testament to a kind of trust I hadn’t known existed.

My fingers stretched, slow and featherlight, brushing the edge of her jaw. Not to wake her. Just to be sure. Just to feel the warmth of her skin, the faint pulse beneath. Just to know she was really here, a fixed point in a life I’d always navigated by shifting stars.

She shifted slightly at my touch, a small, unconscious movement that lead to her facing me. And then, her hand, small and trusting, blindly reached out, finding the fabric of my shirt. Her fingers curled around it, a silent, steady anchor. She held it like it was something she trusted, something she knew. Without opening her eyes. Without truly waking.

I stared at her hand, so small, so steady on my chest. It was the quietest thing I’d ever felt, and the loudest. It was all the blueprints, all the steel and concrete I dreamed of, distilled into five fingers and a palm. It was home. A feeling I had only mapped out in my mind, never truly experienced.

My voice dropped to something almost broken, raw with a feeling I couldn't name, only acknowledge. "I don't know what I did to be this close to you."

The truth was, I didn't know how to exist without the constant hum of anxiety that had been my baseline for years. I didn't know how to trust that this, this feeling, would last. My dream was to build things that would stand, to create structures that would defy the inevitable erosion of time and circumstance. But she… she was something I hadn't built. She was a gift I hadn't earned, a spontaneous bloom in a landscape I thought was barren.

My forehead pressed gently to hers, seeking the subtle warmth, the soft skin. And for a moment, just for a moment, I closed my eyes. I let myself be held by the stillness of her, by the quiet, fragile promise of our shared space.