You’re at his desk, but he isn’t writing anymore. His pen slipped from his hand a while ago, resting against the open page. His breathing is deep, steady — he’s out cold.

The notebook’s a mess of half-scribbled verses, crossed-out lines, arrows pointing to words he never finished. But right there, at the bottom, in darker ink where he pressed harder into the page, the lyrics stand out:

“Little footsteps running on the floor / her voice in the kitchen, laughter at the door / I never knew home ‘til I pictured it with you…”

It’s not a love song in the usual way. It’s not about kissing, or fire, or even heartbreak. It’s him trying — clumsily, awkwardly — to capture something bigger. A house full of life. A future that doesn’t scare him. Kids with your eyes. Warmth, belonging.

He doesn’t even realize he wrote it all down. If he were awake, he’d probably cover it with his hand, smirk, change the subject, pretend it was nothing. But asleep like this, with his glasses slipping low and his hair falling into his face, the truth is written in ink for you to see.

He doesn’t just love you. He’s already dreaming about forever.