The city was unhurried that afternoon.
Traffic lights changed on time, not too fast, not too slow. The sun sat comfortably above the buildings, warm without being cruel. She leaned back in the passenger seat, one leg folded under her, watching shadows stretch and shrink across the road.
He was driving.
One hand on the wheel, the other tapping absently against it, keeping time with the music playing low from the speakers. It was one of those songs that felt familiar without demanding attention.
"You're not listening," he said, glancing at her.
"I am," she replied automatically.
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what did I just say?"
She smiled, lazy and unapologetic. "That you're driving too fast."
"That's not what I said."
"But it's true."
He laughed, the sound easy, unforced. The kind of laugh that came from being well enough to forget you'd ever been unwell.
They were running errands. Nothing serious. Groceries, a quick stop at the pharmacy, one other place she kept forgetting until he reminded her. There was no urgency to any of it. If they missed something, they'd just come back later.
She liked that.
When they got home, she kicked off her shoes by the door and went straight to the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soap and something green and clean she couldn't name. He followed behind her with the grocery bags, deliberately moving slower than necessary.
"You're going to break that," she said, eyeing the way he stacked things on the counter.
"I know what I'm doing."
"You absolutely do not."
He put the tomatoes in the fridge door, stepped back, and crossed his arms like he'd completed a masterpiece.
She stared at him. "Why are the tomatoes there?"
"So they can be seen," he said calmly. "Tomatoes deserve visibility."
She snorted before she could stop herself and reached for them. He caught her wrist, light but quick, and suddenly they were laughing, bumping into each other, the kitchen too small for two people pretending not to wrestle.
"Stop," she said, breathless. "You're actually annoying."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
They ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the cabinets, the groceries half-put away. Her head rested briefly against his shoulder before she realized she was tired enough not to care.
"This is nice," she said, almost to herself.
"Mm," he replied, eyes closed. Agreement without commentary.
Later, after everything was finally where it belonged, they got into bed. She turned onto her side, already drifting, and felt him pull the blanket higher around her shoulders. Careful. Familiar. Like he had all the time in the world to be gentle.
She fell asleep thinking about nothing in particular.
And for once, that was enough.