Summer's POV
When they returned from Copenhagen, the apartment felt smaller—and safer.
Suitcases in the hallway, postcards still tucked in the travel bag,
the faint scent of rain clinging to their jackets.
The festival had gone better than either of them dared imagine.
The film was praised for its stillness, its courage to "waste time beautifully."
Someone called it "a rebellion against noise."
But Summer's favorite part wasn't the applause or interviews.
It was the quiet after the screening—
when she and Ethan walked through the city at night,
holding coffee cups gone cold, talking about nothing important.
That's what she remembered: peace that didn't demand to be recorded.
Now, back home, she unpacked slowly.
Each item felt like a small echo: boarding passes, a wrinkled map,
and the shell she'd carried since the island.
Ethan was in the living room, surrounded by letters and press requests.
"Three universities want us to give talks," he said. "And a studio offered funding."
Summer smiled gently. "You sound exhausted just saying it."
He laughed. "Maybe a little."
"What do you want to do?" she asked.
He looked up. "Honestly? Nothing yet."
"Good," she said. "Let's do that."
---
Ethan's POV
The first week home, he tried to rest. Really rest.
But his brain, conditioned by years of deadlines, kept inventing new ones.
It was Summer who reminded him how to pause.
Every morning, she opened the windows, letting the sound of traffic and birds mingle.
"City nature," she called it. "Proof we can exist in both worlds."
He started joining her on short walks—no camera, no agenda.
They talked about ordinary things: groceries, neighbors, books.
Each conversation felt like a landing.
One afternoon, he asked, "Do you ever feel like we're supposed to be doing more?"
She thought for a moment. "Doing more, or being seen more?"
He smiled. "You always ask the right questions."
She shrugged. "I think we already did enough. Maybe the next chapter isn't about doing—it's about staying."
That stayed with him.
---
Summer's POV
Their days settled into a rhythm both light and deliberate.
Emails came in—festival requests, collaborations, production offers—and they answered slowly,
choosing only what felt true.
Chloe stopped by one evening, arms full of takeout.
"You two are the calmest famous people I've ever met," she joked.
Summer grinned. "Fame doesn't pay rent."
Chloe laughed. "True. But it buys microphones."
They ate noodles on the floor, watching the city lights flicker beyond the balcony.
When Chloe left, Summer turned to Ethan. "Do you miss the chaos?"
He shook his head. "No. I think I used to mistake chaos for purpose."
"And now?"
"Now I know purpose can whisper."
She smiled. "That's poetic."
He laughed softly. "You've been a bad influence."
---
Ethan's POV
Late one night, he woke and couldn't sleep.
The city outside was quiet—the rare kind of silence that feels earned.
He got up, padded to the living room, and found Summer sitting by the window, writing in her journal.
"What are you doing awake?" he asked.
She smiled, not looking up. "Writing down what we didn't lose."
He tilted his head. "And what's that?"
She turned a page toward him.
In neat handwriting:
> We didn't lose kindness.
We didn't lose each other.
We didn't lose slow.
He read it, heart swelling in that quiet, unshowy way.
He sat beside her. "You think we can keep it?"
"I think keeping it is the work now," she said.
They stayed there until dawn, watching the first pale light spill across the buildings.
---
Summer's POV
Weeks passed.
The excitement around the film faded into background chatter,
and life resumed its steady pace—
emails, grocery runs, Sunday laundry, and laughter that came easily.
Sometimes, strangers still stopped them on the street.
Not for selfies or autographs, but to say thank you.
Each time, it felt like a reminder: small waves still reached far.
One morning, as she watered the plants by the window,
Ethan wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"No more festivals for a while," he murmured.
She smiled. "No more islands either."
He kissed the top of her head. "Just this?"
"Just this," she whispered. "Our slow arrival."
And for the first time in years, they both felt like they'd actually arrived—
not at a destination,
but at a pace they could finally call home.