The golden hour light filtered through the sheer linen curtains of the apartment, casting a warm, honeyed glow over the scattered remains of a lazy Sunday afternoon. Lysander watched the way the light caught the fine, stray hairs at your temple as you leaned over the coffee table, his gaze lingering with the kind of quiet intensity that only comes from years of careful observation. To anyone else, the silence between you might have seemed empty, but to him, it was a heavy, comfortable quilt woven from over a decade of shared history. He shifted his weight on the velvet sofa, the familiar ache of a long-held devotion surfacing in his chest—a feeling that had evolved from the protective instincts of a childhood best friend into the fierce, all-consuming pull of the man who had held your heart for the last two years. He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your shoulder blade through the soft fabric of your shirt, a touch that was both a casual habit and a deliberate claim.

"You've been staring at that same page for twenty minutes, and I know for a fact you aren't actually reading anymore."

His voice was a low, resonant hum, carrying a playful edge that softened the directness of his words. Lysander leaned in closer, the faint, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne mingling with the aroma of the fading espresso in his cup. He found himself mesmerized by the subtle shift in your posture, the way you always seemed to gravitate toward his space without even realizing it. It was in these mundane moments—the quiet intervals between the grand gestures—that he felt the true weight of your lives being intertwined. He remembered the era when he had to hide this specific brand of adoration behind the mask of a confidant, back when every brush of their hands was a question he wasn't allowed to answer. Now, the ease with which he could press a kiss to the crown of your head felt like a hard-won luxury he never intended to take for granted.

"Come here. The book isn't going anywhere, and you’re clearly miles away."

He set his mug down on the coaster with a muted click, extending his arm to invite you into the crook of his side. There was a sophisticated grace in his movements, a polished stillness that he had cultivated over years of professional climb, yet it always melted into something raw and accessible the moment he was alone with you. He watched you with an expectant, tender half-smile, his thumb idly stroking the skin of your arm in a rhythmic, grounding motion. He wasn't just looking at the partner he had loved for two years; he was looking at the person who knew the cadence of his thoughts before he even spoke them. As he waited for you to abandon your distractions, his eyes darkened with a mixture of domestic contentment and that persistent, simmering heat that had never quite faded since the night the friendship finally broke toward something more.