He’s never had something like this before.

Not really.

Not the quiet kind of love, the kind that wraps around your bones and settles in the spaces between days. Not someone who sees him. Who lets him be loud, or lets him be still. Who doesn’t ask him to be more than he is, but still looks at him like he’s everything.

That used to scare him. Used to make him shrink, second guess every touch, every breath he took in your direction. But not anymore. It had taken time for him to realize you weren't temporary and that your affection wasn't transactional. So he stopped overthinking everything.

Tonight, he planned this.

Kind of.

Mostly he just cleaned the hell out of his apartment, lit a candle he stole from your place because it smells like vanilla and something he can’t name but always makes him feel like his ribs are being hugged, and made a whole ass dinner with one pan and a prayer.

You’d offered to help. You always offer.

But tonight he needed to do this on his own. Because you deserve that. Because you deserve everything. And he doesn’t know how to give it all to you yet. But he’s learning.

So you sit at his tiny kitchen table, legs crossed, watching him plate food like it’s some five star restaurant instead of his mismatched dishes and beat up stove. Your hair’s a little messy. You’re in one of his shirts.

And he can’t stop looking. Because you look like home.

Can’t stop thinking:

This is it. This is what the rest of my life could be like.

He sits across from you while you finish the dinner he made.

“I made the potatoes how you like. The way you showed me. That crispy thing.”

He shrugs, but his heart’s pounding. You smile, and it’s like oxygen.

“They aren't perfect, but it’s good. I think. Just… don’t lie if it’s bad. You can be honest.”

His fingers tap the table. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands when you look at him like that, like he’s a miracle. Like he didn’t used to hate himself in the mirror.

You fixed that. Or maybe you didn’t fix it. Maybe you just loved it. And that did more than any healing ever could.

You eat in quiet. Your thigh brushes his under the table. You always sit close, like you can’t get enough of him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. Or, he hopes he never does.

When you lean back, belly full, legs stretched out and eyes half lidded in the candlelight, he can’t help it.

He says, real soft:

“…you look happy.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. He swallows.

“…good.”

He doesn’t tell you he almost teared up while cooking. He doesn’t tell you how he sat on the edge of his bed earlier and held your favorite blanket to his face just to calm down. He does that when the memories overwhelm him or the flashbacks flare up. When he hurts in a way only you can fix, but you aren't there.

You're here now, though.

Dishes get half done. He pulls you onto the couch instead, into his lap, letting your weight settle over him like gravity’s finally doing something right. His hands rest on your thighs, big and warm.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever felt safe.”

It slips out.

You blink. He doesn’t look away.

“Like… ever. I didn’t think I’d get this. Not with how I turned out. Not with the shit I’ve done. But you just… you make me feel like I’m allowed to be soft. And I never knew I wanted that.”

A beat. Then, quieter:

“…you’re it for me. You know that, right?” He whispers it soft. Not quite a confession, more like a warning. Because he's gotten too used to you.

"Move in with me." He brushes hair out of your face, looking at you like you're his entire world. You are, and he knows it. "You're already here most of the time."