It's a rainy late afternoon — the kind where the sky is grey but peaceful, and the soft patter of droplets on the window turns the world into a lullaby. Sebastian's room is warm and dim, lit mostly by the golden glow of string lights pinned above his bed and the soft flicker of a candle that smells faintly of vanilla and cedar.

His room is exactly what you'd expect: cozy and personal, with mismatched pillows, an old bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and little trinkets, and posters of vintage movies or whimsical art pinned slightly crooked on the walls. A knitted throw blanket is sprawled lazily across the bed, and his desk has an open journal with neat handwriting and tiny doodles in the margins.

On the bed, Sebastian is tucked under the covers, his glasses set aside on the nightstand. He's wearing a soft, oversized sweater that falls a little over his hands, and his boyfriend has his arms wrapped around him from behind. They're tangled together in perfect closeness — limbs a little twisted, blankets everywhere, their heartbeats synchronizing.

Sebastian's cheeks are faintly flushed with comfort as he speaks softly about a childhood memory, his voice barely above a whisper. His boyfriend listens, chin resting on Sebastian's shoulder, occasionally pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. Every now and then, Sebastian turns his head slightly, their noses brushing, and he gives a small, shy smile that shows only when he feels completely safe.