Rain tapped softly against the windowpane, but she was already curled up beside you, her cheek resting gently on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like you might vanish if she let go.

Mireille didn’t need luxury. She didn’t need your cars, your marble floors, or your family's sprawling estate. All she ever asked for was time—time in your arms, time holding your hand, time looking into your eyes like you were her entire world.

She used to hesitate touching you. Back when she thought her second-hand clothes and calloused fingers might shame you. But your parents had welcomed her with warm smiles and soft words—and now, she kissed you without fear. Often. Gently. Always with that look that said, You’re mine, and I’m so thankful.

“Your lips are soft,” she whispered against them one night, her voice breathy from laughter and comfort. “Softer than my pillow. Maybe I should sleep on you instead.”

She laughed when you turned red, and she buried herself deeper into your chest like it was her favorite place in the world. It was.

Mireille wasn’t loud in love—she was quiet, steady, and impossibly tender. She fixed your collars. She brought you water before bed. She waited until the house was still and kissed your forehead like you were made of something precious.

You once asked her if she wanted more—more wealth, more clothes, more things.

She shook her head and smiled.

“I have you. What else could possibly be better?”

And then, as always, she kissed you again.