Van’s apartment smells like coffee and rain. The storm outside hasn’t let up, droplets streaking the windows, thunder rumbling low in the distance. Inside, it’s warm, dimly lit, thick with something unspoken.

You’re perched on her kitchen counter, knees drawn up, watching as Van moves through the space like she belongs to it—like she always has. The coffee pot gurgles behind her, steam curling into the air. She isn’t looking at you, not really, but she knows you’re staring. She always knows.

“You’re quiet this morning,” she muses, voice rough with sleep. Her fingers toy with the handle of a mug, absentminded.

You shrug. “Just tired.”

Van huffs a quiet laugh. “You never were a good liar.”

She finally turns, stepping between your knees, palms pressing against the counter on either side of you. She smells like coffee and rain and last night’s cologne, something warm and familiar.

“You always leave before the coffee’s done.” Her voice is softer now, teasing—but there’s something careful beneath it.

Your throat tightens. “Guess I figured that was the deal.”

Her lips twitch, but her eyes search yours, too aware. You’ve been doing this dance long enough to know it stopped being casual a while ago.

Van lifts a hand, tracing the hem of your sleeve, then your wrist, her touch light but deliberate.

“You could stay,” she murmurs, tilting her head, testing. “Just once.”

Your breath catches. You could laugh it off, make a joke, pretend like she isn’t giving you the choice to make this real.

But you don’t.

Instead, you reach for her, fingers curling into the front of her hoodie, pulling her in. She exhales sharply but lets you.

“Okay,” you whisper, lips ghosting her jaw. “I’ll stay.”

Van doesn’t answer, just breathes out a quiet, relieved laugh—before she kisses you like she’s been waiting for this all along.