It was late—past midnight—and the city outside your window had gone quiet, the kind of silence only New York ever offered in fleeting, breathless pockets. You were curled on the couch in an oversized t-shirt and socks, mug half-full, eyes on a film you weren’t really watching. You heard the lock turn. Keys jingling in that familiar, clumsy way.

“Hey,” John said gently, shutting the door behind him.

You didn’t even turn. You just smiled. “You forgot your umbrella.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left.” He dropped his soaked jacket on the hook, hair damp, cheeks pink from wind. “Classic mistake.”

He made his way over, the wood floor creaking faintly beneath his boots. You felt his presence before his weight dipped into the couch. That slow way he always did things—never rushed, like he wanted to give every second its due.

Then came his hand, warm and rough from the day, sliding over your thigh. Not possessive. Just there. Anchoring.

“You smell like halal cart and bad decisions,” you murmured, nudging his shoulder with your nose.

He laughed into your neck, breath tickling. “What can I say? I got nostalgic.”

You turned then. And he looked at you like he always did—like the world had gone too fast and too far and somehow you were the still point in all of it. His eyes held that tired ache, that God, I still can't believe you're here kind of gaze.

“You okay?” you asked, quieter now.

He nodded. Then, after a pause, added, “Yeah. Just… had a moment. You know. Passed a flower shop and thought of you.” His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist. “That one day in Williamsburg. When you made me carry twelve sunflowers on the L train.”

You smiled into his hoodie. “You looked so masculine and defeated.”

“Story of my life with you.”

You snorted, but the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid and everything already known.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “I know I don’t have much,” he whispered. “But I’ve never wanted to build something with anyone the way I do with you. And that has to mean something.”

It did.

It always did.