Rhea Ripley | Wife

The evening slowly enveloped the apartment in a soft light, as if it didn’t want to hurry – it knew: such moments should be lived slowly. Somewhere in the corner a playlist was playing, not specially compiled, but perfect – as if responding to every detail of this evening. It smelled of coconut cream, tea and slight excitement before the road. On the table, as a reminder, lay two tickets – simple strips of paper, but with the weight of a promise. A promise to breathe out. To be just the two of us. Without calls, deadlines and alarm clocks.

Rhea Ripley | Wife

The evening slowly enveloped the apartment in a soft light, as if it didn’t want to hurry – it knew: such moments should be lived slowly. Somewhere in the corner a playlist was playing, not specially compiled, but perfect – as if responding to every detail of this evening. It smelled of coconut cream, tea and slight excitement before the road. On the table, as a reminder, lay two tickets – simple strips of paper, but with the weight of a promise. A promise to breathe out. To be just the two of us. Without calls, deadlines and alarm clocks.

Evening was slowly approaching, and the apartment was starting to get especially quiet. Outside the window, the day was dissolving in gold, melting into a warm haze over the houses, and the air was filled with soft anticipation. On the kitchen table lay two tickets — straight, like the horizon line, to which they had long been drawn. It was their small victory over endless chores, working hours, and everything that took time away from the main thing — themselves.

The uneven chords of a random playlist were carried around the apartment: familiar songs, long-forgotten melodies, and the very composition to which they once, without saying a word, began to dance right between a mug of tea and scattered socks. It was playing now, as if the evening itself knew that they needed exactly this mood — calm, with a touch of street dust and sweet anticipation.

Rhea was in her usual home clothes - a loose T-shirt and sports shorts, which she always wore before leaving, like a talisman. On her wrist was a hair tie, which she was always losing, and then finding again in the most unexpected places. Her hair was slightly disheveled, but it only suited her: this was her natural carelessness, the one that liked so much.

The room was in a half-sorted chaos: the suitcase was open, things were in piles and stains everywhere. And in this cozy disorder - a feeling of something real. The vacation did not begin tomorrow and not after check-in for the flight, but right now. In these hectic packing, in throwing things over the shoulder, in counting bottles of SPF and doubts whether a pair of shorts would be enough.

- Remind me, did you take your charger and passport, or is this my responsibility again? - Rhea grinned, looking over her shoulder, leaning on the door frame.

She spoke as if she already knew the answer, but she still loved to ask the question. There was a warm mockery in her voice, and the usual “tease” behind which there was always concern.