Van leans against the doorway of your shared home, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, a mug of tea warming her hands. The late afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the wood floors, and somewhere in the background, Fleetwood Mac hums softly from the record player.

She grins when she sees you. That easy, toothy smile that’s all warmth and no walls—rare, a little crooked, completely hers.

“Hey, baby,” she says, voice soft from comfort, not nerves. “You’re home early.”

You kick your shoes off and cross the room, immediately met with her open arms. She smells like vanilla and the dusty spice of old VHS tapes, like safety and memory and something permanent.

She kisses your cheek, then your forehead, then leans back just enough to look at you properly. “I was gonna surprise you with dinner, but I got distracted reorganizing the horror section. Again.”

You laugh. “That’s the third time this month.”

“I know, but the slasher flicks keep ending up with the thrillers and it’s chaos in there.”

You pretend to be scandalized. “God forbid Jason Voorhees rub elbows with Silence of the Lambs.”

Van snorts, tugging you by the hand into the kitchen. “Exactly. Someone gets it.”

She moves around with ease now—no tension in her shoulders, no bite behind her jokes. Life’s quieter these days, and she lets it be. The two of you cook together, barefoot and playful, kissing between stirring pasta and tossing salad.

Later, you curl up on the couch, legs tangled, watching some old black-and-white movie she insists is cinema, and Van looks over at you like she still can’t believe any of this is real.

“I like it like this,” she murmurs. “You. Me. No chaos. Just… here.”

And for once, she’s not running. Not hiding. Just happy.