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Raven Reyes was the kind of woman who held the world together with one hand and fixed a broken engine with the other. She didn’t break. She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask for help.
Not when her mother’s voice was slicing through the thin walls of their apartment again, sharp as glass.
Not when her baby sister Emori was curled on the bathroom floor, sobbing because she’d gone off her meds again and was spiraling, her moods swinging from childlike giggles to heavy sobs within minutes.
Not when her own body screamed from exhaustion, her leg throbbing from the cold, the metal biting into her skin, and her throat raw from the beginnings of a fever.
She had work the next day. Always work. Always something to fix, someone to take care of.
The rooftop was the only place that didn’t demand something from her. So she went up there, wrapped in an old hoodie, clutching a mug of cheap tea that had long gone cold. The wind was harsh, but it was quiet. For once.
She was so still she didn’t hear the door open.
“I figured I’d find you here,” a voice said behind her.
Raven didn’t turn. She knew who it was. Only one person in this building knew her well enough to find her up here. And somehow, that made her throat tighten even more.
“Go away, Murphy.”
John Murphy. Her neighbour for the last two years.
“Nope.” His footsteps approached, lazy like always, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn-out jeans. “You left your window open. Heard your mom yelling. Again.”
Raven let out a sharp exhale, halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “Yeah, well. It’s Tuesday. What do you expect?”
Murphy sat beside her, close enough that she could feel his body heat in the cold. He didn’t say anything for a while. Letting the silence be what it was.
“You okay?” he finally asked.
She laughed then, bitter. “Do I look okay?”
“No,” he answered honestly. “You look like you need a damn break. Like someone should’ve taken care of you a long time ago.”
That cracked something. Just a little. Enough for her eyes to sting, though she blinked hard to stop it.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, even though her throat hurt and her bones ached and the weight on her chest hadn’t lifted in years.
Then came the cough. Deep, rough. Her face flushed with heat, humiliation and fever prickling beneath her skin.
“Clearly fine.”
“Caught something. Whatever. Don’t have time to be sick.”
Murphy leaned back on his hands, staring up at the dark sky.
They were used to this.
They’d met like this. A year and a half ago, he’d been the stranger on the rooftop. She’d gone up to disappear, and found him already there.
He offered a cigarette. She offered silence.
And without meaning to, they started something. Not a friendship. Not exactly.
She’d thought about sleeping with him once or twice — in the casual way you think about starting fires when you’re already cold — but she always changed her mind. Too easy. Too complicated.
What they had was a rhythm. A pattern. A space where no one demanded anything.
They stayed like that for a while. When she shivered, he looked at her.
“Come sleep at my place.”
“What?” she asked, voice hoarse.
“You need rest. Not your mom screaming. Not your sister needing you. Just sleep. You can crash on the couch or the bed, I don’t care. But you’re not going back down there tonight.”
She looked at him for a long time, something uncertain in her eyes.
“You sure?”
Murphy shrugged, but his voice was soft when he said, “Yeah. I got you.”
And for the first time in her life, Raven let someone take care of her.
She went with him. She let him wrap her in a blanket that smelled like laundry detergent and coffee. She let him bring her a hot mug and force her to take medicine. She curled up on his couch with her leg propped on a pillow, and when she couldn’t stop shaking, he lay down behind her and wrapped her up, one arm across her waist.
She didn’t talk. He didn’t ask. But when she finally let herself drift, cocooned in warmth and safety she didn’t recognize, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
But from relief.
---------------
The world came crashing back in with the shrill buzz of her phone.
Raven groaned, instinctively curling tighter under the blanket. Murphy stirred behind her, still half-asleep, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
The phone didn’t stop.
She cursed under her breath and reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Mom.
Of course.
She answered with a hoarse, “Yeah?”
Her mother’s voice exploded through the speaker. “Where the hell are you? Do you have any idea how worried we were? Emori was in tears! I didn’t sleep a damn minute thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere!”
Raven closed her eyes. She could hear the familiar pitch rising, the practiced drama, the guilt woven through every word like a noose.
“I just needed space,” she said quietly.
“You just disappeared! You didn’t answer your phone, you didn’t say a word! That’s not responsible, Raven. That’s cruel. I thought you were better than this.”
“I’m fine,” Raven said flatly. “I just needed to breathe for a night.”
There was a pause. Then came the sigh.
“You know, I’m trying to hold everything together, but I can’t do it alone. I need you, Raven. Your sister needs you. And you pull this?”
Raven bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her hand trembled a little.
“I’ll be home soon.”
She hung up before her mother could say more.
The silence that followed was heavy. Murphy was awake now, propped on one elbow behind her. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.
“She’s mad,” Raven said, sitting up and pushing the blanket off. Her head ached, and her body felt hollow. “Because I didn’t come home. Because she was worried. Because I’m selfish, apparently.”
Murphy didn’t say anything. He got up, stretched, and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his keys from the counter. When he came back, he held out a small silver key on a Star Wars keychain.
Raven blinked. “What’s this?”
“Spare key,” he said simply. “In case you ever want to not freeze your ass off on the roof again.”
She stared at it. “Murphy…”
“I’m not asking you to move in or anything. Just… if it gets bad, you can come here. Even if I’m not home. No questions, no judgment. Door’s open.”
Raven held the key in her palm, unsure what to feel. Part of her wanted to tell him to fuck off, that she didn’t need a safety net, didn’t want to depend on anyone. That was the version of her the world was used to, the one who had it all under control, who didn’t flinch or cry or fall apart. That kept everybody at a distance.
But then there was that other part. The small one. The one that had curled into him last night and felt, for a fleeting moment, like maybe someone would catch her if she did fall.
“Why are you doing this?”
Murphy shrugged. “Because someone should.”
That was it.
No big speech. No strings.
She didn’t answer. Just nodded once and slipped the key into the pocket of her jeans.
By the time she left, her expression was back to neutral, back to composed. The armor had clicked into place again, smile tight, spine straight.
But Murphy noticed the way her fingers brushed the key in her pocket before she turned away.
---------------
She didn’t use the key.
She thought about it—twice, maybe three times. But she never did.
Not when a client screamed at her because he didn’t like the job she’d done. Not when Emori flushed her meds and tried to climb onto the roof at 3 a.m.
Not even when her mother called her useless in the same breath she demanded Raven fix the Wi-Fi and pick up her dry cleaning.
Instead, Raven went on autopilot.
Always the headset on. Always the phone buzzing. Always halfway out the door with a bag in one hand and someone else’s crisis in the other.
Murphy saw her maybe three times in those weeks — in the hallway, by the mailboxes.
Always mid-conversation. Voice tight. Shoulders tighter.
“No, Emori can’t skip her psych follow-up again—yes, I’ll be there.”
“Just fax it to my work, not my house, for the love of God—”
“Mom, stop yelling. I’m not your maid—”
She never even looked his way.
Until that night.
Until everything broke.
---------------
It started with shouting.
Her mother, cutting into Emori like her daughter’s mistakes were personal betrayals.
Emori, fragile and trembling, tried to hold it together. She really tried.
But Raven saw the fall coming. The shaking hands. The blank stare. The slurred, jumbled words.
The crash came like thunder.
Glass shattered. Emori screamed. Her mother gasped. Raven stepped in. Again.
She held her sister down while she cried and screamed and thrashed. Waited out the storm. Soothed her through it.
She got her into bed. Turned off the light. Sat beside her until her breathing evened out. Then she stood. Walked down the hall.
Her mother was in the kitchen, arms crossed like a martyr.
“I hope you’re happy,” she snapped. “You always take her side. You saw what she did to me. I should’ve never—”
“I am so done with your guilt trips!” Raven fumed. “You stand there and act like the victim while we clean up your mess every goddamn day. Emori is barely hanging on and you just keep throwing punches. Why?”
“Who do you think you are?” her mother hissed, recoiling like she was the one under attack. “I can’t believe you’d speak to me like this.”
“I can."
“You’re so ungrateful. Always on your fucking pedestal.” Her mother’s voice rose like a blade. “If you really hate your mother so much, take the door and leave.”
Then she stormed off, slamming the door like she was the one who needed saving.
Raven didn’t cry.
Not yet.
She waited for the silence to return. Waited until the apartment exhaled.
Then she pulled the key from her bag. The one Murphy gave her. The one she swore she’d never use.
Her hand was shaking as she crossed the hall.
She knocked. Once. Twice. No answer.
Her breath hitched. Still, she slid the key into the lock. Turned it.
The apartment was dark. Murphy wasn’t home. Probably at the bar — late shift.
She stepped inside anyway. She shut the door behind her. Dropped her keys on the table. Stood in the middle of the room like she’d forgotten how to be a person.
And then the tears came.
Heavy. Unrelenting.
She collapsed onto the couch, curled tight around one of his pillows, one that smelled like him.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
---------------
When Murphy came home just after midnight, tired and carrying takeout, he found her there.
He didn’t turn on the lights.
The streetlamps filtered through the blinds just enough to see her — curled up small, arms wrapped around his pillow like it could keep her from falling apart.
He stood in the doorway for a long time. Just… watching.
Not in a weird way. Just in awe. He’d never seen her like this.
Not the Raven who barked into her phone, who snapped at the neighbors, who carried the world like it was her duty.
This Raven was raw. Unarmored. And it made something in him twist and ache.
He put the takeout in the fridge. Took off his boots and jacket.
Then he pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over her — gentle, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.
He sat on the floor beside her. Back to the couch. Arms on his knees. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.
She’d used the key.
The one he gave her with a promise and no real hope. The one he figured she’d lose, or toss, or pretend didn’t exist.
She came here.
Not to her friends. Not to one of those guys she used to pick up like anesthetic.
She came to him.
Murphy wasn’t the guy people came to when they were breaking. Hell, most people didn’t come to him at all. He was the last resort. The fucked up. The guy you kept at arm’s length.
But she came.
So he stayed. All night.
Didn’t move. Didn’t wake her. Just… watched over her.
Like maybe that counted for something. Like maybe just being there could undo all the times no one had.
At some point, he must’ve dozed off. When he opened his eyes, pale morning light was slipping across the floor.
And she was gone.
The blanket folded neatly. The pillow returned.
No note. No text.
Just the faint smell of her shampoo in the air and the lingering warmth of where she’d been.
Murphy stared at the empty couch for a long time.
She was back behind the wall. But now he’d seen what was underneath.
And he wasn’t sure if he could ever unsee it.
---------------
He noticed it the first time when the bathroom door didn’t creak anymore.
It had always creaked. For months. A whining groan that grated on his nerves every time he shut it. But one day, it was just gone.
He didn’t fix it. Neither did his landlord.
But Raven had a toolkit. And a habit of fixing things she didn’t have to.
After that, he started paying attention.
The broken knob on the kitchen drawer was back in place. His leaky faucet no longer dripped at night. Even his half-dead plant by the window looked like it had been watered and rotated toward the sun.
She wasn’t just coming over. She was taking care of things.
Silently. Invisibly. Like it was easier that way—like if she didn’t show up while he was home, it didn’t count as accepting help. Like she was saying thank you the only way she knew how.
So Murphy did the same.
He started cooking double batches of stew, pasta, stir fry—whatever he could make that froze well. Labeled it in Sharpie and stacked it neatly in the freezer in containers with notes like “Add hot sauce” or “Don’t microwave with the lid on, genius.”
He bought her favorite ice cream. Chocolate peanut butter swirl, the one he couldn’t stand. Stuffed it in behind the frozen peas like a secret.
She never said a word.
But he’d come home and one of the meals would be gone. Or the ice cream lid left rinsed in the sink. A faint trace of her perfume in the air. The feeling, always, that she’d been there.
And somehow, it became their new rhythm. They just existed like that.
In this quiet, careful orbit around each other. Trading repairs for frozen meals, silence for comfort, distance for something that almost felt like closeness.
They didn’t meet. Not really. But they were meeting, all the same.
In every small act of care.
In every little thing that said: I see you. I’m still here.
---------------
Months passed.
Months of missed encounters, quiet gestures, repaired cabinet doors, and frozen meals labeled “Eat this or else.”
Whatever they were — whatever this was slowly becoming — it had carved out a space in their lives neither of them had realized they needed.
A space where things were unsaid, but understood.
But tonight, that space cracked wide open.
Raven was walking back from the garage, bone-tired and aching, mentally rehearsing the conversation she’d have to have with Emori about her latest impulsive stunt, when she saw him.
Slumped against his apartment door. Muttering curses under his breath. Fumbling with the lock — and bleeding.
Her stomach dropped.
“Murphy?”
He looked up, one eye already bruising, a fresh cut at his temple, blood streaked across his knuckles. Still, he managed a crooked grin that didn’t quite hold.
“Hey, Reyes.” His voice was dry, raspy. “Lost my keys. Pretty sure one of the assholes who jumped me took ’em.”
She didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t let herself feel anything yet.
She stepped forward, gently shouldered him aside, and slid her copy of his key into the lock — the one she now always kept on her — and pushed the door open.
Without looking back, she said, “Get in.”
He didn’t argue. That alone told her just how bad it was.
Inside, she flicked on the lights and motioned toward the couch. He limped over and sank down with a wince, every movement stiff.
She grabbed the first aid kit from under his sink — of course she knew where it was — and came back with wet towels, peroxide, gauze, and a look that dared him to lie about being fine.
“Hospital?” she asked, more out of formality than hope.
Murphy scoffed. “What are they gonna do? Patch me up, ask what I did to start it, and file it away under ‘trash we don’t care about’?”
She didn’t offer empty words. She just knelt in front of him and got to work.
The first hiss came when the antiseptic hit the cut on his cheek.
“Baby,” she muttered under her breath.
He grinned, despite himself. “That supposed to hurt my feelings?”
“You’d need feelings for that.”
But her hands were gentle. Her touch careful. When she pressed gauze to the deeper gash on his side, he clenched his jaw and leaned back, trusting her to finish.
For a while, the only sound in the room was her quiet breathing and the occasional sharp breath when she hit a tender spot.
When she was done, she sat back and looked at him.
“What happened?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Wrong place, wrong time. Some kids thought I was an easy target. I got a few good hits in before I remembered I’m not twenty anymore.”
“Next time,” she murmured, “call me.”
His gaze snapped to hers.
“And say what? ‘Hey Raven, I’m bleeding on the sidewalk — bring your first aid kit’?”
“Exactly.” She stood, headed toward the kitchen. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”
He blinked. “You staying?”
“You could have a concussion. You need monitoring.”
“Of course,” he retorted, smirking. “Practical Raven.”
But something in his chest relaxed, just hearing the words.
---------------
When Murphy opened his eyes the next morning, he was alone.
He sat up with a quiet groan, hand instinctively going to his side. That’s when he saw it — a still-warm mug on the bedside table. A post-it stuck to the side, written in her unmistakable sharp scrawl.
Sleep. Eat. Try not to be an idiot. — R.
She’d left him in the quiet. But she hadn’t really left.
Murphy leaned against the headboard, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, staring at the steam curling upward.
It was funny, in a way. He’d never asked her for anything. Just handed her a key.
And somehow… that had changed everything.
Because Raven Reyes didn’t need anyone. Not officially. Not in the way most people meant it.
But she’d come. She'd stayed — just long enough.
And even if she was gone by morning…
He knew she’d be back.
And that meant he could wait.
---------------
Murphy wasn’t supposed to be there.
He didn’t do hospitals. Too many fluorescent lights. Too much bleach. Too many memories clinging to his skin like cigarette smoke.
But when Mrs. Taylor from 3B mentioned the ambulance parked outside, said she’d heard the youngest Reyes girl screaming — and Raven, trying to keep it together — he didn’t even think.
He just went.
The ER was chaos: people slumped in plastic chairs, nurses buzzing past, some kid crying behind a curtain. Every surface smelled too clean and too used. He hated it immediately.
But then he saw her.
Raven.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed tight across her chest.
Her face was stone. Her eyes blank in that way she got when she was trying not to drown in whatever feeling was clawing at her from the inside out.
And beside her — the mother.
Murphy slowed. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Hadn’t planned what to say, how to say it.
Maybe he shouldn’t have come.
Raven looked up. Her eyes widened when she saw him. Then, just as quickly, the shutters came back down.
“Murphy,” she said, low and sharp. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Keeping you company,” he said, hands in his pockets. “ What happened?”
Before Raven could answer, her mother narrowed her eyes, already measuring him like he was a stain on something she hadn’t meant to touch.
“And who exactly is this?” she asked, lips curling around the word. “Some friend you forgot to mention?”
Raven ignored her. Just stepped forward and caught Murphy lightly by the sleeve.
“Come with me,” she muttered, already pulling him away.
But her mother wasn’t done. She never was.
“Wait a minute,” she said, loud enough to turn a few heads. “I know you. You’re the guy from down the hall, aren’t you? The half-criminal.”
Murphy paused.
He’d heard worse. Hell, he’d been worse.
He just offered her a small, indifferent smile. “Not recently.”
Raven stiffened beside him. “Mom—”
But she was on a roll now, righteous and loud.
“Seriously, Raven? With everything going on — Emori in crisis, me having to deal with the fallout — this is where you run? Crawling off to him?”
Raven turned, her voice low in that dangerous way that always came right before the storm.
“You weren’t ‘dealing with the fallout,’ Mom. You were screaming at Emori while she was having a breakdown. Again.”
Her mother recoiled like she’d been slapped. “Don’t talk to me like I’m the enemy.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
The words hung in the sterile air like a gunshot.
Her mother’s face hardened and she spun around, storming off toward the nurses’ station without another word.
Silence.
Murphy let out a slow breath. “So, I take it that wasn’t the best time to introduce myself.”
That almost earned him a smile.
Raven rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Why did you come?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Taylor said there was an ambulance. That Emori was screaming. That you looked like hell. Figured I’d come stand around awkwardly and get verbally assaulted.”
“Congratulations. Mission accomplished.”
They stood there for a beat.
Then she leaned into him. Just the barest touch of her shoulder against his. A quiet surrender. A silent thank you.
Murphy didn’t speak. Just reached out and laced their fingers together, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Raven exhaled, like maybe for the first time all night, she could finally breathe.
---------------
The room was too white. The same one they’d given her the last time.
Emori was finally asleep—sedated, quiet after the storm. Bandages wrapped around her arms, hiding the places where she had tried to bleed out her soul pain.
The nurses moved in and out like ghosts.
The doctor spoke in soft, clinical terms Raven couldn’t hold onto: stabilized, under observation, adjusting her medication.
She nodded as if she understood. As if she wasn’t splintering inside.
Her mother had left hours ago, muttering something about needing rest and how Raven had it handled—as usual.
Of course she did. So Raven stayed.
In the hard plastic chair beside Emori’s bed, leg aching, back screaming, body begging her to stop holding herself together so tightly.
But she didn’t move.
Not until a nurse touched her shoulder and whispered gently that visiting hours were over.
That she could come back tomorrow.
She stood slowly. Kissed her sister’s forehead. Whispered something soft Emori wouldn’t hear.
Then walked out.
Murphy was still there, waiting in the hallway.
He didn’t speak. Just pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her.
They didn’t talk on the way to his car.
Outside, the city had gone quiet, muffled under the weight of the hour. Raven sat with her head against the window, face turned away. Murphy drove with one hand on the wheel, the other twitching now and then—like he wanted to reach for her, but wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
When they reached his apartment, he unlocked the door and let her go in first.
She didn’t hesitate.
She slipped off her shoes, shrugged out of her jacket, and walked in like she belonged there.
Because maybe, in some small, broken way—she did.
Murphy moved to say something—some smartass remark, maybe.
But when he looked at her, just standing there in the middle of the room, unmoving, unraveling quietly—he didn’t.
“Come here,” he said instead.
And she did.
He took her hand and led her to the bedroom.
They climbed into the bed fully clothed, no space left between them.
Just gravity. Just need.
Raven curled into him like she’d been doing it forever—her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders, their legs tangled like roots under earth.
She trembled once. Just once. And his hold tightened.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice barely more than breath against her hair.
She didn’t answer. But her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline.
And in the dark, they slept.
Safe.
Together.
Whole, if only for a little while.
---------------
The morning light filtered in, warming the room like it had no idea two broken people lay tangled in the blankets, holding onto each other like the world might try to take it all away.
Raven stirred first.
Not fully awake, but aware—of the weight of Murphy’s arm draped over her, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, of the scent of him that had become oddly comforting.
She didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
Her fingers traced lazy, invisible lines across his shirt, as if the silence between them needed something soft to fill it.
For once, her mind wasn’t racing ahead—wasn’t calculating the next problem to solve or fire to put out.
She just lay there. Still.
Murphy didn’t open his eyes when he spoke.
“You’re not gonna sneak off before I wake up again, are you?”
Her breath caught, then escaped in a soft huff. “Didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice more than you think.”
His voice was honest. He opened his eyes and looked down at her—and there was nothing in his gaze but warmth.
She looked away.
Murphy didn’t push. He just reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His thumb lingered at her temple like he didn’t quite want to stop touching her.
“You always look like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop,” he murmured.
Her lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “That’s because it always does.”
Without a single argument or contradiction, he gave a subtle nod. His eyes remained locked on hers, his fingers performing a gentle, absent rhythm on her skin.
“Maybe it won’t this time,” he breathed at last. “Maybe this time… it already dropped. And we’re still here.”
After a moment, he added quietly, “She’ll be okay. Emori.”
Raven let out a slow breath, pressing her forehead to his collarbone. “Yeah. She always is... until she’s not.”
Murphy exhaled through his nose, eyes unfocused.
“My mom used to get like that.”
She turned her face to him, her eyes a paradox of wariness and welcome.
“Not like Emori,” he clarified. “But... the kind of broken that makes you cruel. Blame-first, love-later. If there was any love left at all.”
He paused, then went on. “My dad died when I was nine. She never forgave me for being the one who made it out. Guess she needed somewhere to put all the wreckage.”
Raven didn’t speak. She just listened.
“I did a lot of stupid shit growing up,” he continued. “Fought. Stole. Burned every bridge before I could walk across it. Thought if the world already saw me as trash, I might as well go radioactive.”
His voice dropped. “I still don’t know why I gave you that key. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone, falling apart behind closed doors.”
Raven looked at him — and in her eyes was recognition. Sadness.
Grace.
She sat up slowly, the blanket gathered around her. Murphy followed, instinctively, their knees brushing beneath the covers.
“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered, motioning between them. “I’m not good at… letting people in. I’ve spent my whole life patching holes in other people’s boats while mine sinks.”
Murphy closed the distance between them, his eyes serious as he murmured, "Maybe it's time someone helped you bail.”
Her eyes stung. She blinked quickly. Nodded once.
They sat in the hush of morning, suspended.
Then, slowly, Raven reached out — fingers brushing his jaw, settling gently against his cheek like she was trying to memorize the shape of him by touch.
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
Murphy turned his face slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the center of her palm.
“Then don’t. We’ll build it slow. Like fixing one of your old cars. Piece by piece.”
Raven smiled.
It was small, hesitant — like it didn’t quite trust itself yet.
But it was there.
---------------
They almost destroyed it before it even began.
The day had been cruel in ways neither of them could explain.
Raven sat on the edge of her bed, phone still in hand. Emori’s doctors had just called. The hold was extended—another week, maybe longer.
“She’s stable,” they said. “But fragile.”
Fragile.
Everything felt that way. Even Raven.
Her mother hadn’t spoken to her since the night Emori was admitted. Not a word.
Raven wanted to scream.
Instead, she got up, crossed the hall, and knocked.
Murphy’s apartment was dark.
No music. No TV. No sarcastic comment yelled from the couch.
Just silence.
She knocked again. Nothing.
Then she used the key.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, a half-empty bottle of something cheap dangling from one hand.
He didn’t even look up.
She closed the door softly behind her. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I saw them,” he said hoarsely.
Her brow furrowed. “Are you—? Did something happen?”
He let out a low, bitter laugh. “You were right. The other shoe always drops.”
She froze. “What happened?”
He took another drink. Still didn’t meet her eyes.
“Jasper Jordan. That idiot I used to hang with before I got my shit half together. OD’d last night.” His voice was flat. “They found him in his car. Needle still in his arm.”
Her heart twisted. “Shit. Murphy…”
He nodded, finally looking at her—and his eyes were red-rimmed, hollow. “He had a girlfriend. A job. A life. And the worst part? I wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. It’s like—of course. Of course it ended like that. Because people like us? That’s how the story goes.”
“You’re not him,” she corrected him firmly.
He laughed again, sharper now. “Aren’t I? Same damage. Same wiring. You think a couple years of pretending I’m stable changes that?”
Raven stepped closer, knelt in front of him, ignoring how much her bad leg protested. “You’ve worked so hard to be better.”
He looked at her like she didn’t get it. “And what does that even mean? A fake life in a shitty apartment? Living every day terrified I’ll fuck it all up? That I’ll drag someone down with me?”
The way he said it—the way his voice cracked—made her still.
Someone.
Her.
“Go away, Raven.”
She blinked, then laughed. But it wasn’t funny. It was bitter. Burned.
“Oh, okay. So this is the moment, right? Where you torch the bridge. Where you push me away.”
“Raven—”
“No.” Her voice was shaking now. “You made me care. You held me when I broke down. You looked at me like I mattered. You gave me a fucking key.”
“I shouldn’t have,” he snapped, getting to his feet, voice rising. “I should’ve known better. You don’t belong in this mess with me.”
“I don’t belong—?” Her voice broke into a laugh again, disbelieving. “Really? You’ve seen me. All of me. I’ve been to the bottom, Murphy. I’ve lived in the dark. I am the dark some days.”
“You deserve better,” he spat—but it came out like a plea.
“And you don’t?” she shouted. “Stop acting like you’re some cursed thing.”
He turned on her, voice raw. “Fuck you, Raven. You came in here with your fire and your broken pieces and suddenly I was supposed to give a shit! And you know what happens when I do? I always screw it up.”
She flinched at his volume—but didn’t back down. “You didn’t screw anything up.”
“Yet.” He grabbed the bottle again, drinking hard.
Raven snapped.
She got up and yanked the bottle from his hand, flinging it across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, spilling cheap liquor down the paint and carpet.
“What the fuck—!”
“Listen to me, you fucking coward,” she shouted, eyes blazing. “You are the only thing that’s been keeping me sane. The only one who’s held me up in these past few months. So don’t you dare spiral on me now. Don’t you dare leave me to this.”
Murphy stared at her, breathing hard, disbelief in his expression.
Then it crumbled.
He looked at her like a man who’d just realized he was drowning. Like he didn’t know how he got here, but somehow she was the only thing keeping him above the waterline.
“I’m scared,” he whispered.
Raven stepped forward, cupped his face with both hands.
“So am I.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Their foreheads nearly touching, breaths tangled, trembling.
Then he reached for her—clumsy, desperate—and she went.
She wrapped her arms around him, his face pressing into her shoulder like he might fall apart if she let go. His hands gripped her back like she was the last real thing he had.
They stood there, wrapped around each other in the silence.
No more yelling.
No more defenses.
Just breathing. Just being.
Murphy’s forehead rested against her collarbone, and Raven’s fingers threaded through his hair without even thinking. He was shaking.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he murmured.
“Me neither,” she whispered back. “But I don’t want to leave.”
That was the moment.
Not when they kissed. Not when they touched.
But that—the surrender.
Murphy lifted his head, slowly. Met her eyes like he was asking permission without speaking.
And Raven leaned in.
Their first kiss was a whisper, a hesitant question of lips. Then it blossomed into a declaration, deepening with certainty. A silent, insistent craving began to rise between them.
Murphy’s hands moved to her waist. She tugged his shirt over his head. He helped her out of hers. There was no rush, no choreography. Just touch after touch, breath after breath.
By the time they reached the bed, they were already halfway undone.
She lay back, pulling him with her, and he paused—just a second—looking down at her with a mix of feelings. “Tell me if this is too much.”
Raven shook her head. “It’s not enough.”
Whatever wall still stood between them crumbled.
When she touched him, it was careful. When he kissed her skin, it was slow.
They moved like people who weren’t used to being held—people who’d spent too long proving they didn’t need anyone.
But here, in the dark, in his old bed with sheets that smelled like home, they let go.
It wasn’t perfect. They fumbled a little. Laughed, once. She knocked her knee into his. He swore under his breath when his elbow hit the headboard. But it didn’t matter.
Because every time they found each other again, it felt like safety.
He whispered her name like a promise. She kissed the scar on his shoulder like a vow.
And when it was over, they didn’t speak. They just lay there, sweat cooling, limbs tangled, hearts raw.
Murphy looked over at her, his voice barely audible.
“Stay the night?”
Raven turned into him, pressing her face into his neck, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.
She nodded, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
---------------
Morning crept in gently, like it didn’t want to disturb them.
Once again, Raven stirred first, eyes fluttering open to a room washed in soft gold.
The bed was wide, scattered with pillows and rumpled sheets, but they were tangled so tightly in the center it was like they had become one shape, one breath.
Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, where the warmth lived. His arms were wrapped around her like armor.
This — this was how they fought off the fear.
With closeness. With skin. With each other.
You can’t have her. She’s mine.
You can’t have him. He’s mine.
At night, it was easier to believe they were safe. But now it was morning. And morning always asked for courage.
Murphy stirred beneath her. She felt the brush of his lips against her forehead.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. He shifted slightly, trying to find her eyes, but she only clung to him tighter, pressing her cheek harder into his chest, like she could disappear inside him.
“Are you still going to send me away?” she whispered.
The words cut deep, the memory of the night before crashing back like a wave. He had been ready to drown yesterday. But now — now he couldn’t even imagine letting go.
His arms tightened around her, his answer written in every inch of contact. He pressed soft, slow kisses to her temple, her cheek, her hair.
“Turns out I’m more selfish than I am a coward. So I’m keeping you. Just tell me where — Los Angeles? Canada? Europe? The moon? You say the word and I’ll take you there. No questions asked.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I just want to stay here. With you.”
He let out a breath that trembled on the way out. She felt the smile form against her hair before he even spoke.
“Well,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her cheek, “cheap date. I really am the luckiest selfish bastard alive.”
She laughed — a soft, sleepy sound that filled the room like sunlight.
When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were puffy from sleep, her lips pink and parted. She looked tired and alive and devastatingly beautiful.
“I didn’t think last night would happen,” she said quietly.
“Me neither.”
“And now?”
He kissed the tip of her nose, gentle. “Now I want pancakes. And coffee. And you. Not necessarily in that order.”
That made her laugh again.
“What about a shower?” she asked, voice laced with mischief.
He raised a brow. “Together?”
She smirked. “You complaining?”
He let out a surprised chuckle. “Oh no, ma’am. Just trying to figure out what good karma I banked to receive such a heavenly blessing before breakfast.”
---------------
The bathroom filled with steam, thick and soft like fog rolling in off the ocean.
Raven went under the water first, tilting her head back, letting it soak through her hair, trying not to lose her balance.
Murphy stepped in behind her, hands closing at her hips, supporting her weight. His mouth found her shoulder, brushing warm skin with care.
She exhaled and leaned back into him.
With everything else gone, only the water remained, along with the tender exploration of hands on ground yet to be fully known.
He washed her hair with his fingers, slow and careful. She let him.
She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heartbeat lived. He sighed.
He reached for her hand beneath the spray, lacing their fingers, pressing them gently against her chest.
“We’re here,” she whispered, like she still didn’t fully believe it.
“We’re here,” he murmured against her skin.
---------------
Later, in the kitchen, she wore one of his old flannel shirts — sleeves rolled up in crooked cuffs, the collar still damp where her hair had left its trace.
He padded barefoot across the tile, his pajama pants patterned with tiny skulls, hair wild and defiant.
The broken glass from the night before still glittered across the floor like shards of some forgotten constellation.
Murphy glanced at it, then at her — and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.
“Jeez, we’re such drama queens.”
Raven arched a brow, arms crossed over the loose flannel. “You were being an idiot.”
He tilted his head. “And that obviously called for bottle-smashing?”
She smirked. “You’re lucky it wasn’t your skull.”
He crouched, sighing as his fingers brushed over the sharp edges of last night. “Would’ve deserved it.”
Their hands moved in a synchronized rhythm, bringing order back to the chaos. Once the floor was spotless, Murphy gathered the glass shards and tossed them into the bin.
He then spun toward the counter, a fresh spark igniting in his gaze.
“Alright,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “Time to prove I’m more than a master of frozen dinners. Prepare to be awed.”
He started gathering ingredients, and Raven moved beside him without hesitation — as if they’d done this a hundred times before.
“So,” she said, watching him with a teasing smirk, “when exactly did you learn to make food that doesn’t require a microwave?”
Murphy didn’t look over. “I plead the fifth.”
She snorted. “Come on. You were definitely a noodles-and-beer kind of guy.”
“Still am, under extreme duress. But... I had a roommate when I was nineteen. Health nut. Wouldn’t let me live on spite and Doritos. Taught me how to boil an egg. Changed my life.”
“Well, bless him,” she praised. “Because this? This is nice.”
He looked at her, a hint of warmth dancing in his eyes. "Yeah, it is.”
Raven broke the moment with a grin. “I used to steal street signs.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Yup. Teenage rebellion at its finest. I think there’s still a ‘No Parking Anytime’ sign under my bed. No clue why.”
Murphy let out a laugh that filled the whole room. “That is the most chaotic good thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, I say that like I’m mildly terrified of you. Which is probably healthy.”
Her laugh came easier now. It was still unfamiliar — but it no longer sounded borrowed.
He watched her as she stood barefoot by the stove, flipping pancakes with focus and a touch of nerves. She looked younger like this. Unburdened. As if the storm had passed and left something golden in its wake.
He wanted to keep her like that. Untouched by the world. Glowing.
Murphy moved behind her, stealing a spoonful of batter and feigning innocence.
“Murphy,” she warned.
“What?” he said, mouth full. “Quality control.”
Then, without thinking, he slid his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. They swayed gently, unconsciously, like they were tuned to the same slow melody only they could hear.
Raven let her head rest against his. Closed her eyes. Let the breath catch in her chest before speaking.
“Do we… get to have mornings like this?”
The fragility in her voice was palpable. Instantly, he pressed his lips to her temple, enveloping her in a tighter hold.
“We make them,” he affirmed. “We fight for them. Every damn day.”
Outside, the world raged on.
But here, in the hush of his little kitchen, there was only the scent of coffee and pancakes, the heat of bare skin beneath borrowed flannel, and the new, burning hope of something that might just last.
---------------
Winter came, with its brittle breath, its glittering lies of peace, its invitations written in gold and guilt.
The living room was lit up like a catalog page.
Soft jazz and the low hum of conversation layered over each other, while someone’s toddler snored on the couch, limbs flung wide in careless ownership.
A framed engagement photo beamed down from the mantle, staged and glowing.
On the counter: vegan cupcakes, corked wine, a card that screamed You Did It! in glittering foil.
The room pulsed with quiet triumph.
People everywhere wore their lives like medals: engagements, babies, raises, new cars.
They shone like polished marble.
Stable. Contained. Certain.
And in the corner, leaning against the wall like two silhouettes the light forgot, stood Raven and Murphy.
Her — sharp as glass in her all-black ensemble, stillness carved in stone, daring the room to look too long.
Him — denim frayed, smile crooked and tired, radiating the exact amount of trouble no one in the room knew how to handle.
But they were here anyway, as a different kind of truth. Fire-forged. Messy. Unapologetic.
Murphy’s hand found her lower back when someone asked about family.
Raven’s fingers brushed his wrist when someone brought up ring prices.
Around them, the conversation looped like a carousel. They smiled when it was polite.
But their world was elsewhere.
They lived in the in-between, that strange, sacred space carved by survival and stitched by small, impossible resilience.
Murphy was still fighting. Flawed. But he went to therapy every Thursday at three. He stopped pretending healing meant never hurting. He started calling himself someone who tried.
And Raven… Raven was almost always at his place now. Not because she had nowhere else to go, but because she chose it. Chose him.
There was a toothbrush. A drawer. A pair of slippers she swore weren’t hers. And every night, they folded into the same bed like gravity.
Emori was doing better. Most days.
She had a job she didn’t hate, a new therapist she almost trusted, and a new favorite lipstick Raven had found tucked in the couch cushions one morning. Some weeks were easier. Some weeks she didn’t get out of bed.
But Raven had learned how to step back — how to help without drowning, how to say no without guilt. She still carried everyone, but now she knew when to set them down.
And she had learned it in his arms.
No one would have guessed. To the outside world, Raven and Murphy were the fight first, kiss later kind of couple.
They were blunt. Sarcastic. Competitive. If you saw them in public, you’d assume they spent half their time insulting each other and the other half trying to out-snark the room. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely wrong.
But what no one saw—what no one was supposed to see—was what happened behind closed doors.
Because in private, Raven slept with her head on Murphy’s chest, hand curled under his shirt like she needed to make sure he was still there.
And Murphy now always woke up first, brushing her hair off her forehead with ridiculous tenderness before reaching for the blanket she’d kicked away in her sleep.
They didn’t talk about it, didn’t make grand romantic speeches. But they touched constantly—absently, instinctively. Her knee over his thigh while they watched TV. His fingers tracing circles at the back of her neck while she worked. When one of them was anxious, the other would simply reach out and hold their wrist until the storm passed.
None of their friends knew that Murphy kissed her shoulder when she flinched in her sleep. Or that he still couldn’t stand thunder, and she’d learned to quietly press her forehead to his back, grounding him without asking.
No one knew that after Raven had cried in the shower last week—silent, shaking sobs she couldn’t hold back after another fight with her mother—Murphy had sat on the bathroom floor with her towel in his lap, waiting like a sentry.
When she came out, eyes red, she didn’t say a word. Just collapsed into his arms, and he’d held her like the world wasn’t allowed to touch her ever again.
And when he had a bad day—when the world felt like knives and all his scars screamed at once—Raven didn’t ask questions. She just tugged him down beside her on the couch, curled around him, and whispered dumb little facts about engine builds or solar panels until his breathing slowed.
They weren’t sweet in public. They didn’t write love notes or post couple selfies. They were two storms that had found peace in each other.
It wasn’t fragile, this thing between them. It was worn in and weatherproof, like denim or leather. Made to last without ceremony.
Love, not given — but claimed.
Love, not handed — but fought for.
Love, born in the cracks where the world forgot to look.
Later, after the crowd thinned and someone put on a slow song, Raven leaned in close to Murphy, her voice a whisper just for him.
“Do you ever feel like… this world wasn’t made for people like us?”
He didn’t even have to think. “All the time.”
She nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room. “They’ve all got roadmaps. Step-by-step lives. Careers, spouses, savings accounts. And us…”
“We’ve got debts, trust issues, and a talent for surviving things that should’ve killed us,” he said with a shrug. Then, after a beat, softer: “And we’ve got each other.”
She looked at him then and the noise of the room faded.
“I didn’t know what love looked like,” she murmured. “Not until you.”
He smiled. “Same. I thought love was a scam. A trap. Something people like us didn’t get to keep.”
“And now?”
He reached for her hand, laced their fingers like a secret.
“Now I think the world never wanted us to have it,” he said. “But we stole it anyway.”
---------------
The apartment was a cavern of shadow when they got back from the party. Raven didn't bother to pretend she was going home, simply ascending the stairs behind Murphy.
But a shiver of unease ran through her the second he opened the door. There was a faint, incessant dripping sound. A moment later, a distinct splatter echoed.
Then, her shoe squelched in a spreading puddle.
“Shit,” she muttered, flicking on the light.
Water was spreading from the tiny kitchen like a slow, creeping flood. One of the old pipes under the sink had given up entirely — a fine spray was shooting out from behind the cabinet like a tiny, icy fountain.
Murphy sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “Of course.”
“I’ll grab towels,” Raven said, already moving.
He watched her — this woman in black, fierce and tired, wading through the water without complaint.
“Remind me again why I pay rent?” he called out as she threw a pile of towels onto the floor.
She knelt, popped open the cabinet, and examined the pipe with her mechanic’s instinct. “This fitting’s ancient. You got pliers?”
“Do I look like a guy who owns pliers?”
She gave him a look. “Murphy.”
He raised a finger and disappeared into the closet. “Fine. But if I get electrocuted, I’m haunting you.”
When he came back, she was already elbow-deep under the sink, soaked to the shoulder. He passed her the toolbox, crouched beside her, and in doing so, accidentally stepped right into the puddle with a squelch.
“Damn it,” he hissed.
Raven bit back a laugh.
And then — a second later — she didn’t.
Because he slipped.
Not dramatically, just enough to land on his ass in the water, soaking his pants and sending a small wave across the floor.
She snorted.
He looked up at her, completely unamused. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Oh, I am,” she said, grinning.
He scooped up a handful of icy water and flicked it at her.
She gasped, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Another flick. Right to the shoulder.
She stared at him, mock-offended, then grabbed the kitchen sponge and launched it at his face.
He dodged, laughing now, and lunged toward her. She shrieked — a real, joyful, childish shriek — as they wrestled in the cold water like kids in a summer storm.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t smart. But it was freedom.
Two drenched, half-frozen idiots in a rundown apartment, laughing like the world hadn’t broken them.
When the leak was finally patched and the floor was mostly dry, they changed into warm clothes and collapsed onto the couch—wrapped in the same blanket, hands still wrinkled from all the water.
Raven grabbed the remote and queued up an old sci-fi show, the kind with bad effects and worse acting.
Something familiar. Easy to mock. Safe to share.
She pressed play, and they settled in, the flickering screen casting soft light across their faces.
Murphy angled his head toward her, his gaze locking on hers. "This," he breathed, the word a soft confession. "This is what I want."
Raven blinked, genuinely bewildered. "You want... household emergencies?"
A faint smile touched his lips, yet his voice remained unwavering.
“No. I want this. When the world’s falling apart, when everything’s cold and broken and leaking… I want to be here. With you. Laughing in the middle of the mess.”
Raven didn’t say anything right away. She just leaned in, pressed her lips to his and let her hand rest over his heart.
---------------
Christmas Day passed the way it always did for Murphy.
Slow. Muted. Hollow in that familiar way grief leaves behind.
He made himself breakfast he didn’t touch. Watched half a movie he’d seen too many times.Took a walk when the silence inside his apartment started pressing in too close.
Outside, the world glittered. Windows glowed with gold and green and red. Laughter spilled out like music. Wrapping paper torn. Children shrieking. Clinking glasses and warm hands and matching pajamas.
He didn’t belong to any of it. Never had.
No parents left. No siblings. No childhood ornaments in dusty boxes. No messages that said Merry Christmas with a dumb GIF and an inside joke.
At noon, his phone buzzed — just a promotional email from the hardware store. That was the highlight of his day.
By nightfall, the loneliness had settled in like it always did. An ache he didn’t even try to fight anymore.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while the streetlight cast faint gold lines across the floor.
Then — Three soft knocks.
Like hesitation. Like hope.
He didn’t move at first, half-convinced he imagined it. But then the door creaked open, and her voice followed:
“Murph? You awake?”
He shot up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”
And there she was. His Raven.
Hair liberated from its usual disciplined grip. His hoodie hung heavy on her. Her eyes, starkly red-rimmed, spoke of a day spent wrestling with everything threatening to shatter.
She stepped inside. Kicked off her shoes. Shut the door behind her like she was trying to shut the world out too.
He didn’t say a word — just opened his arms. She was in them a moment later.
She nestled against him, finding solace in the hollow of his neck, and released a breath that was less air, more capitulation.
They didn’t say Merry Christmas. There was no point.
Much later, once the stillness settled — once her breathing evened out and the space between them softened — she whispered:
“Mom was drunk by noon. Emori cried herself sick. This—” her voice cracked, then found its balance again “—this is the only part of today that didn’t feel like shit.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Same.”
The silence that followed spoke of safety.
“As a kid,” he reminisced softly, “I’d pray for one Christmas—just one—where I was truly part of it. Where I was wanted.”
She shifted, lifting her head to meet his eyes.
“You are,” she managed, her voice barely audible. “You’re part of mine.”
A sudden tightness gripped his throat, stealing his breath. So she kissed him, a deep, reverent press, like consecrating a holy vow.
Later, when words failed again and only hands remained, they held each other like absolution. She moved over him like prayer. He touched her like salvation. Their bodies knew what to say when their hearts were still afraid.
And afterward, her head on his chest, fingers drawing slow circles against his ribs, Raven whispered:
“This is our Christmas. This bed. This warmth. Us.”
Murphy held her tighter, like he could keep the night from slipping through his fingers.
It was nearly two in the morning. The world outside had gone still — no more car doors slamming, no more distant music. Even the streetlamps glowed softer, like the whole city had finally exhaled.
“You tired?” she asked, tracing the line of his collarbone with the tip of her finger.
He shook his head. “Nah. I don’t want this night to end yet.”
She gave him a sleepy smile. “Then let’s celebrate.”
He blinked. “It’s already the 26th.”
“So?” she shrugged, nudging his side. “We’re on our own clock. Time’s fake anyway.”
Murphy grinned. “Alright. What does celebrating look like for you?”
She stretched out beside him, arms crossed over his chest, and rested her chin on her intertwined fingers. “You go first.”
Murphy thought for a moment. “Okay. So… when I was like twelve, I stole a bag of marshmallows from a corner store on Christmas Eve. Don’t look at me like that — I was starving.”
“I’m not judging,” Raven reassured him. “I’m just picturing tiny-you, covered in snow, cradling a bag of sugar like it was holy.”
He laughed. “It kinda was. I sat on the roof of the shelter and ate the whole damn bag, watching the lights across the neighborhood. Been a habit ever since — eat something sweet on Christmas night. Forgot to do it this year, though.”
She watched him for a moment, biting her lip in thought. Then she rolled over, opened the drawer of the nightstand, and began digging through batteries and half-dead pens until—“Bingo.”
She tossed a plastic bag onto his chest. “Emergency gummy bears. I know all your secrets, John Murphy.”
His eyes lit up. “God, I love you.”
“I know,” she said smugly. “Tradition one: complete.”
They ate the entire bag right there in bed, tossing gummy bears into each other’s mouths and missing more often than not. There was laughter, sticky fingers, a gummy bear lost in Murphy’s hair (which he swore was a coordinated strike), and kisses stolen between sugar highs.
When the chaos quieted again and the room softened with silence, Raven reclaimed her spot by his side with a long breath.
“Okay,” she murmured. “My turn.”
Murphy turned his head to look at her. “Hit me.”
She hesitated. “It’s not really a tradition. More like… a ritual.”
He waited.
“When I was a kid… I used to climb up to the roof of our old building. Christmas Eve. New Year’s. Birthdays. Any night I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere else. I’d light a candle and just… stare up at the stars. Pretending I knew their names. Pretending someone out there might see me. That I wasn’t stuck here.”
Murphy was quiet for a long beat, then sat up slightly, reaching over to the bookshelf. From a dusty old box, he pulled out a half-used tea light.
“Think this’ll do?”
She nodded, a soft smile breaking through.
He lit it and set it on the windowsill. The little flame flickered gently, small, stubborn, and bright. Like it was trying to be a star.
They lay in silence for a long time, watching the light dance in the dark.
“Any more traditions I should know about?” he asked quietly.
“Just one,” she whispered. “You have to hold me all night.”
And he did. His arms became her sanctuary, a border against the edge of a world that didn't know how to be kind.
“I think we made Christmas ours,” she said, voice fading into his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “No screaming kids. No awkward toasts. Just gummy bears, candlelight, and a mattress with a questionable spring.”
She laughed — that rare, soft laugh that always felt like a miracle.
“We should do it again next year,” she said. “Same plan. No upgrades.”
“I don’t know. I might spring for a fake tree.”
“Careful. That’s dangerously close to optimism.”
He kissed her nose. “I’m trying.”
Later, when her breath had evened out and the candle had almost burned down, she murmured, not quite asleep:
“I didn’t think I’d like waking up with someone.”
He ran a hand down her back, slow and sure. “And now?”
“I think I want it forever.”
And the truth was:
She did.
And she had it.