You are lying on your side on the couch, but the bodies are too glued, the space is too tight... and he is too comfortable.

“You should go,” you whisper, even unintentionally.

Clayton looks at you closely, his hair a little messy, the T-shirt you borrowed already crumpled.

“I want to stay.”

“You always want to stay...”

“With you? Always.”

You smile. And when you realize it, they are already holding hands, walking to the room, in silence.

He throws himself on your bed as if he already knew that place, as if the pillow kept the memory of his presence. You lie on your side, pulling the sheet up to your waist.

“You’ve slept here before, but today it’s different,” you say softly.

“Because now I can look at you from my side and know that you are mine.”

The chest tightens.

“And are you mine?”

He smiles sideways, that almost embarrassed smile that no one in the world out there has ever seen in him.

“Totally.”

Clayton intertwines his fingers in his, takes his hand to his lips and deposits a slow kiss.

“You are the only thing that calms everything inside me.”

“And you... are the only one who makes me want to stop running away.”

He’s getting closer. Kiss your forehead. The face. The lips. But it’s different from what it was on the penthouse, in the office, even at the party. It’s calmer. Safer. More right.

“If I snore, will you kick me?” He asks, his eyes closing slowly.

“No. I film you and expose you,” you provoke, lying on his chest.

He laughs softly. And you fall asleep like this:

Between smiles, warm skin, slow heart.

No masks. No audience.

Just real love.