Lily
The next morning, the rain had finally stopped.
The city outside Daniel's windows was washed clean—sky pale blue, sidewalks slick and glistening. I sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing the same flannel pants and T-shirt from last night, sipping coffee from a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Cook."
Daniel was in the kitchen, humming under his breath as he made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Real food that involved more effort than pizza delivery and apologies.
I watched him move—easy, confident, barefoot and rumpled from sleep—and something twisted low and sweet in my stomach.
This felt dangerously close to domestic.
Dangerously close to… forever.
I wasn't scared, exactly. But I could feel the old panic clawing at the edges of my peace, that tiny voice whispering that nothing this good stayed.
Daniel must have seen something flicker across my face because he set down the spatula and crossed the room to me.
