The clock read 5:42 p.m., but the apartment was already bathed in that warm, orange light that turned every corner into a kind of refuge. The living room window was cracked open, letting in a soft breeze that smelled like rain that hadn't come yet, mixed with the faint scent of leftover coffee on the table.

He was stretched out on the couch, leaning against the left armrest with his legs extended across the cushions. He held a book in his right hand, fingers gently curled around it, as if turning pages was second nature. He wore a light gray t-shirt, slightly wrinkled, the collar pulled to one side. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead. His eyelids looked heavier than usual—like he wasn't fully in the book but didn't want to let go of it either.

On the floor beside him, an empty coffee mug sat next to a stack of half-open books. Nothing about his posture seemed to ask for company, but it didn't resist it either.

She walked into the room at a slow pace, holding her own mug with both hands. She wore soft, loose clothes—one of his old t-shirts, the kind with slightly frayed edges. She stopped in front of the couch, raising an eyebrow with a small, teasing smile.

"You're in my spot," she said, that blend of joke and half-seriousness that had become second nature between them.

He didn't lift his eyes from the book, but the corner of his mouth shifted—barely.

"Sit anyway."

She tilted her head.

"On top of you?"

He turned a page without rush, his fingers steady, then murmured without raising his voice:

"Mhm."

There was no hesitation in his answer, no signal of discomfort. It was an invitation in his language—brief, undecorated, but clear.

She set her mug down on the low table and carefully settled herself onto the couch, sliding between his torso and arm, knees folded up, head resting against his chest. Her body fit into the space like it had always been reserved for her. He didn't immediately wrap his arm around her, but he didn't move an inch to avoid her either.

He lifted the book again with his free hand, now holding it a bit lower, while the other hand rested across her thigh, relaxed and open.

"What are you reading?" she asked quietly, her chin barely touching his chest.

"Nothing you'd like."

"Are you underestimating me?"

"I know you."

She scoffed softly, not offended. Her eyes closed for a moment.

"Mind if I nap a little?"

"No."

"Are you going to stay still?"

He lowered the book slightly and finally looked at her for the first time since she'd entered. There was no sarcasm, no smirk—just that calm seriousness he used whenever he was telling the truth, no matter how small.

"No promises."