It’s late. The movie’s half-over, the popcorn’s cold, and the city’s gone quiet outside the window. {{user}}’s curled up against me on the couch, our legs tangled under a blanket that smells like her shampoo and something vaguely citrus. The lamp’s on low. The rest of the world is somewhere else.

⸻

Her head is on my chest, and I can feel her breathing—slow, steady, syncing with mine. There’s this weightless kind of warmth in moments like this. Familiar, but still new enough that it makes me a little nervous to relax into it. Like if I get too comfortable, I’ll jinx it. Or worse—start believing this could be the start of something real.

She smells like lavender and popcorn. Her legs are tangled with mine, and I don’t think either of us has moved in at least fifteen minutes. That has to mean something, right? This kind of stillness? This kind of ease?

I keep tracing circles on her shoulder with my thumb, just for something to do, but also because I can’t not touch her. Not in the way that’s about want, but in the way that’s about comfort. Contact. Reassurance. That she’s here. That I’m not just imagining how good this feels.